Harry and Ariel’s walk led them, perhaps inexorably, to the river. Without the tourists milling around, it was a different place. You could actually hear the water. Ariel found it soothing but Harry was troubled.
“I can’t get my head around it all,” Harry said.
“The river?”
“The whole situation. Everything.” Harry made an expansive gesture that took in the town and Ariel and the sky.
“It’s new to me too, mate.”
Harry blinked. “Did you just call me ‘mate’?”
Ariel shrugged. “Is that not correct usage, Harry? I heard Master Oliver say it.”
“Master Ol- oh, you mean Olly! That treacherous rogue!”
“Would you like me to punish the traitor, Harry?”
“What? No!” Harry panicked in case Ariel did something irreversible to his erstwhile friend. “I was just being melodramatic. It’s that girlfriend of his. She’s come between us. And no - I don’t want you to punish her either.”
“I was only going to give her a bit of a pinch. Mate.”
“Knock it off with the mates, will you? It doesn’t sound right coming from you.”
“Am I not your mate then, Harry?” Ariel looked stricken.
“I don’t know what you are!” Harry said a little too quickly. “Look, all I meant was it doesn’t suit your pattern of speech. You’re more of an ‘aye, verily’ type than I am!”
“Aye,” Ariel said sadly. “Verily.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” Harry repeated his expansive gesture. “Don’t be all moody, moody.”
But Ariel wasn’t listening. He was staring along the river, against the current.
“What’s up?” Harry tried to follow the spirit’s gaze. Ariel stepped in front of Harry as though to protect him.
Emerging from the water was a woman. By the light of the moon and the antiquated lampposts, her skin looked pale, almost green in hue. She walked as though crossing a street while balancing books on her head, belying the strength of the current. She half-stepped, half-levitated onto the little jetty near the theatre - the very spot where Ariel and Harry had first met.
Ariel, shimmering with unease, whispered to Harry. “Keep back. Don’t let her see us.”
He steered Harry backwards. They moved behind the wide trunk of the tree that was older than the theatre itself. Harry peered over Ariel’s shoulder. The spirit had faded and was taking on the colour and texture of the bark.
He’s afraid of her! Harry was startled.
Who the fuck is she?
They watched Kelly Benn pause on the jetty to squeeze her hair dry. Harry gasped to see the gills at the base of her throat move as she adjusted her breathing to the air.
A hand like a branch, heavy with leaves, clamped over Harry’s mouth. “Ssh!” Ariel urged, his eyes like knots in the wood. “He’ll hear us!”
Kelly Benn walked by, leaving wet footprints on the pavement. Ariel moved Harry around the tree as she passed. She strode past the theatre frontage and continued on up Sheep Street.
“Come on!” Ariel sprang from the tree like a fallen branch and resumed his usual shape and texture. “Let’s see where he’s going!”
“Um,” Harry had to jog to catch up with the spirit. “I know all this is new to you, but that was most definitely a she!”
“Illusion and trickery!” Ariel grabbed Harry by the cuff of his jacket. “Now, stop dawdling. But keep back! And your gob shut!”
Harry was confused and amused at the same time. He chose to say nothing and let Ariel take the lead. They padded up Sheep Street. There were no longer any footprints but Ariel, nostrils flaring, seemed able to track the mysterious water-woman--thing without difficulty.
At the top, Ariel paused and tasted the air again.
“Who is it?” Harry whispered. Ariel waved at him to be quiet.
“An old foe,” he said grimly. “This way!”
Ariel moved off and again Harry had to move fast to keep up. Rather than clearing his mind, the walk had presented more confusion, more questions - like how had it happened that they had been at the water’s edge the precise moment that woman had stepped out? It could be coincidence, Harry supposed, but with Ariel’s unworldly powers, Harry suspected coincidence didn’t enter into it. He hoped the spirit knew what was going on and could handle it. He just wished he’d said old ‘friend’ rather than ‘foe’.
***
In the chapel, things were getting out of hand. The hooded figures were arguing among themselves while several of them tried to maintain an atmosphere of seriousness and ceremony. At the centre of the confusion, Hank Brownlow plotted his escape. If only the two heavies at his shoulders would get distracted, he’d be able to sneak away and ‘leg it’ as the Brits called it.
Of making good his escape, Brownlow had Bob and no hope. A new figure arrived whose hood was larger and trimmed with embroidered designs. The newcomer stepped up onto a chair and blew a whistle. The shrill sound penetrated the woolly cowls and the heated discussions of the celebrants and they all stood to attention and froze.
“That’s better!” the whistle-blower spoke in the rich, mellifluous tones they recognised. He was the one who had read out the scroll about the octopus symbols. “Now, kindly be seated.” The celebrants complied. Only then did the scroll-reading, whistle-blowing newcomer see the stranger in their midst.
“What the blue fuckery is he doing here?” he pointed an accusatory sleeve.
The hooded figure to his left leant towards him and whispered. “That’s him! He’s the one we have to impress.”
“What?”
“He’s American,” the whisperer continued. “And off the telly.”
“On the contrary!” the leader jumped down, almost tripping on the hem of his robe. He composed himself quickly and approached the American who was off the telly. “He is an intruder in our sacred rite and must be dealt with.”
Gasps and oohs went around the circle.
“He’s good!” cowled figures nudged each other. “He’ll get the part for sure.”
The leader produced an ornate, curved dagger and brandished it for all to see. He pressed it to the American’s throat. A spontaneous round of applause burst out, although some of the claps were muffled in cases where overlong sleeves fell over hands.
Brownlow’s eyes were wide and rolling. Hands clamped his shoulders, keeping him on his chair.
“You’re insane!” he sneered through gritted teeth. The blade was pushing against his neck but had yet to break the skin. “You’re all fucking crazy!”
This outburst earned the American a standing ovation. He tried to back his head away from the knife wielded by the maniac.
“We are the Sons - and um, daughters - of Setebos!” the knife-wielding maniac announced.
“Setebos!” the others took up a chant. “Set-eb-os!”
Their voices rose to the rafters as the chanting became more insistent. With his free hand, the leader conducted his congregation. The noise built to a climax which he silenced with a sweep of his sleeve.
All eyes, although hooded, were on the American in the middle. No one breathed. Brownlow was aware of his pulse against the sharp metal.
“Well,” one figure raised a hand and broke the moment. “Did we pass? Are we through to the next round?”
The question was addressed to the American. The figure stepped towards him and lowered her hood. Brownlow frowned in vague recognition of the girl’s face.
“It’s me, Trish,” said Trish. “We met at the Birthplace...”
“Sit down, Trish!” the leader barked.
“Well?” Trish stayed where she was. “Did I pass the audition?”
“What fucking audition?” Brownlow squirmed in his seat. Sweat was coursing down his face.
All around him, hands reached into opposite sleeves and pulled out identical pieces of paper. They held them towards him, moving in tighter unison than they had evidenced in any of their entire charade. Trish, ever helpful, held her copy of the flyer for the American to read.
“OPEN and SECRET audition!” Brownlow read. “Report to Ye Olde Chapel...” There followed the date of a few days ago.
“We heard you were in the country and thought it must be for one of your telly programmes,” Trish continued.
“That’s right,” said someone else. “It’s all over Twitter. You’re doing Shakespeare this time.”
The nut-jobs began to remove their hoods. They’re just ordinary people, Brownlow observed. Ordinary people with an eye on their big break.
“I’m sorry,” Brownlow tried to shake his head but couldn’t risk slicing his own throat. “It’s not me.”
The disappointment in the room was immediate and audible - and gratifying to Brownlow’s ego. The hands lifted from his shoulders but the pressure from the blade remained constant.
“Then who -” Trish began to ask but was interrupted by the arrival of Darren Daley. The lettings agent strode into the hall, shouting.
“Right, that’s your lot, people. Let’s break it up. Party’s over. Time’s up.” He rattled his keys for good measure. He approached the one who appeared to be the leader of this mob of weirdoes, the one in the fanciest robe. “I’ve bent the rules and bent over backwards to accommodate you lot. Time to decide whether you’re going to take out a long-term lease or not -”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The embroidered sleeve swung away from the American’s throat and plunged the dagger into the lettings agent’s belly. Darren Daley was lifted by the impact. He teetered on tiptoe, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. A red line of blood spilled from his mouth and down his chest. Darren Daley glanced down. Not only had his shirt a hole in it - from which the dagger was still protruding - it was now also stained. It would be a bugger to get out.
That was Darren Daley’s last thought. The dagger was pulled out. The lettings agent collapsed in a heap, spreading a pool of blood across the floor.
Trish screamed. She sprang back to avoid the spreading blood. Others caught her panic and began to flee, all clamouring for the exit at the same time. One, slower on the uptake, stood his ground, applauding the special effects, until it dawned on him that this was no piece of theatre and he too joined the mass of bodies pressing through the doorway.
“What the fuck?” Brownlow launched himself from the chair, then snatched it up and used it like a lion tamer to fend off the knife-wielding murderer.
“You know, I think I like this outcome better,” the murderer sounded philosophical. It’s better that you’re here as witness rather than sacrificial lamb.”
“What the fuck is this bullshit?” Brownlow glanced over his shoulder. He was backing himself into a corner.
“You may as well sit on that chair rather than hide behind it. The best is yet to come.”
“What the f -” Brownlow gave up repeating his questions and took to shouting for help instead.
He saw that everyone else had left. Some of them had shed their robes, which lay like sloughed skins, soaking up that poor guy’s blood.
Outside, lightning flashed and rain fell like a power-shower.
A figure was on the doorstep, backlit by the dramatic weather. Brownlow recognised her.
“Ms Benn!” he cried. “Thank God!”
Then he remembered it wasn’t long since he’d escaped from Ms Benn’s boathouse of doom... “My God!” his chiselled jaw fell. “You’re in this together!”
Ms Benn strode into the chapel, heedless of the blood on her bare feet. She reached the centre and dropped to one knee in deference.
“I am here, Mother,” she said. She bowed her head. Her gills fluttered.
The figure with the dagger reached up and removed his hood.
“At last, my child!” said Jeremy.
***
Trish collided with Harry as she turned the corner from the chapel.
“Trish!” Harry tried to steady her. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“He - he - killed him! Harry! Oh, Harry, run! Get away from here!” She tore herself from Harry’s grasp.
Harry exchanged a glance with Ariel. He wasn’t sure if Trish could see the spirit at that moment but he decided that wasn’t the point.
“Call the police!” Harry called after his receding friend.
Trish kept running. Harry could only assume she had heard.
“Perhaps we should be running away too?” Ariel suggested. “I’m not that bothered about a reunion with my old adversary.”
“You’re joking! If you know something about this, you’ve got to help put a stop to it.”
“And by ‘you’ you mean ‘we’, don’t you, Harry?”
“Too bloody right. If your old mucker did for Cheese then I’m damned sure she or he or whatever is not going to get away with it.”
Harry was already heading around the corner. Ariel materialised in front of him, and tried to push him back.
“Perhaps you should leave this to the authorities.”
“Perhaps you should let me pass.”
Harry shoved his way right through the spirit. It was a cold sensation, like stepping into the chiller aisle at the supermarket but more tickly. After a brief shudder, Harry continued on his way, picking up his pace into a jog.
Ariel watched Harry go. He didn’t want the foolish mortal to be hurt. He wished the boy wasn’t so stubborn. He was headed for trouble and that was putting it mildly.
Ariel looked at the sky. Storm clouds were gathering over the ancient building. Rain was circling the chapel. Elsewhere, the skies were clear and the streets were dry.
Water, Ariel sighed. If you wanted water, old bean, you should never have left our island.
***
Harry turned up his collar against the peculiarly localised downpour. Bent low he scuttled around the perimeter of the building. The rear exit was locked. All the windows were closed or boarded up. There was only the front door.
Harry dropped into a crouch and pressed his back against the doorpost. The occupants of the hall were occupied with other matters. If he kept close to the ground, he should be able to sneak in...
***
“Mother?” Kelly Benn was puzzled. It had been centuries since they had last met. In the interim, Mother appeared to have changed sex. Which was no big deal, considering how many times in recent days, Caliban had changed shape and gender himself.
Jeremy held a crystal pendant to his mouth.
Hello, baby!
“I don’t understand. Why have you brought me here? Why have you taken this form? Why have -”
Questions, questions! Honestly. What it is to have an inquisitive child!
From behind his chair in the corner, Brownlow watched this exchange. He tried to catch Ms Benn’s cold eye, but the creature in the centre of the circle of blood was no longer Ms Benn, the personal assistant. The figure contorted and rippled. Bones and muscles swelled and deflated as the transformation happened. Thick, coarse fur sprang out on one half of its body; on the other, glistening scales of silver and green. The half-ape, half-fish creature Caliban revealed itself in its true form.
Caliban stood up, favouring the leg on his ape side. He quickly inspected his shape and grunted with approval and confusion.
“But - but I died, Mother. As did you.”
Foolish talk! You shed your mortal form, as all mortals must. But you forget who your parents were - who your parents ARE! Your mother, a witch, skilled in dark magic, redolent with occult power. And your father...
“My father...” Caliban’s heavy forehead lowered in a frown. He had never known his father.
Your father, the demon god Setebos, you plum! You shed your mortal body and unleashed your demonic powers. How else do you think you’ve been able to swan around, nipping in and out of people’s bodies?
“I was wondering about that,” Caliban put a webbed finger to his lip. “There is so much I don’t know. So much I don’t remember... I was alone on the island. I moved into the old master’s cave. I fed myself. I grew old and lonely - oh, so lonely - and then oblivion!”
I awakened you, my son. I raised you from the cave where your bones still lie and have given you the chance to reach your potential. Now, tell me; have you brought me what I asked?
Caliban’s mind was swimming. Lucky mind, he thought. Oh to be immersed in water! His gills flickered.
Ahem! Have you brought the bloody things or not?
Caliban adjusted his ears to Mother’s more contemporary manner of speaking. He didn’t want Mother to be cross. He wanted a proper reunion after all these years. He wanted a hug.
Well?
The things! Of course, the things! Caliban searched his mind - now his mind again and not the repository of the thoughts and memories of others. What had he done with those bits of old stick?
He picked up the scraps of his last host’s garments. Ms Benn’s two-piece suit, shredded when Caliban’s true form had emerged, was heavy with the objects. Caliban’s webbed hand and monkey claw fumbled with the fabric. At last he freed the objects from the pockets and, falling to his knees, held them aloft.
Well, well, you have done well. Two is not four but two should be enough.
Jeremy tucked his fancy dagger under his arm, reached out and took the blackened pieces of wood in his hands. With a broad, triumphant gesture, he lifted the pieces of Prospero’s staff over his head and rammed them together. The chapel was instantly swamped with light. Caliban recoiled with a furry arm over his eyes.
Brownlow squinted. The light shone pink through his eyelids. The madman was indulging himself in a spot of maniacal laughter.
The light shrank back, absorbed into the staff where the pieces joined.
“What now, Mother?” Caliban looked up. Now would come the praise. Now would come the gratitude. Now would come the hug!
“A pox on you, fish-boy!” Jeremy waved the staff. Caliban was thrown through the air. His back struck a pillar and he slumped to the stones.
“I don’t think that’s his mother,” a voice whispered near Brownlow. The American glanced around. Harry, crouching behind a stack of chairs, held a finger to his lips.
Jeremy took the truncated staff and described a circle in the pool of sticky blood.
“Two pieces will bind him to me. Two pieces will bring two more. Then I will reign supreme. For now and evermore!”
“I don’t think he’s much of a poet either,” Brownlow muttered from the side of his mouth. Harry gave a thumbs-up.
Jeremy raised the staff to the ceiling and threw back his head.
“Come to me! Come to me!” he roared. Above the roof, thunder and lightning vied for his attention.
“I’m here, Mother!” Caliban tried to crawl into the circle but another wave from the staff repelled him.
“Not you!” Jeremy’s face was a mask of contempt. “You’ve done your bit. The one I want will soon be here! Approach, my Ariel! Come!”
Harry’s mouth fell open.
The storm raged outside; the front doors flapped and banged. As though pulled in by suction, Ariel entered, drawn inexorably towards the centre. The spirit’s eyes were wide. His body elongated as he fought against the force that was drawing him in. Harry had to clamp a hand over his own mouth to stop himself crying out.
Ariel’s mouth stretched in a long, downward curve, reminding Harry of the Munch painting, the figure frozen in a silent scream. But the canvas was stretching. Ariel was distorted like elastic as he struggled to keep out of the circle of blood.
“Come to me!” Jeremy intoned.
The elastic snapped. Ariel contracted into a ball and hit Jeremy in the stomach with enough impact to knock him onto his backside. He dropped the staff but quickly snatched it up again.
Righting himself, Jeremy wiped blood from his hands onto his robe and pointed the tip of the staff at Ariel, who was back in his customary shape again.
“My brave spirit!”
“Yes, master,” said Ariel glumly.
The lightning took on hues of red and blue. The thunder was punctuated with the whoop of sirens. Brownlow and Harry exchanged heartened glances but in an instant their faces fell: what good would the cops do against a maniac wielding unfathomable power?
The question went unanswered. Jeremy commanded Ariel to get them out of there. Ariel sent Harry a pained look as Jeremy clung onto the spirit’s arm.
And then they winked out. They shrank to nothing and popped like a soap bubble.
Just as the police stormed in and took charge of the situation.
Harry and Brownlow emerged from the corner with their hands held high. A look of recognition sprang onto the face of the officer in charge.
“Well, well,” he said. “Ill met by moonlight, I should cocoa.”
Harry shivered. He hated it when people did that. Misquoting. It wasn’t even the right fucking play.
“I’m not with him,” Brownlow jerked his head towards Harry. “I was being held against my will. I -”
“Let’s discuss this down at the station,” the officer in charge silenced the American with a raised hand.
“Do you know who I am?” Brownlow turned up the wattage on his smile. His veneers caught the light of a siren. The officer in charge spoke to the walkie talkie on his lapel.
“Looks like we’ve got a case of amnesia here as well.” He pulled Brownlow by the sleeve. “How very convenient.”
He bundled the American and the Shakespeare lookalike out to a squad car.
“Aye, aye, aye,” he surveyed the scene. The dead body in the circle. The discarded robes. Bloody Satanists. No consideration.
He saw the car head off back to base and oversaw his team at work.
If this gets out, he chewed his lip, it can only look bad for the town. The district council is going to go bonkers. It’s going to take more than a couple of hanging baskets to counteract this kind of bad publicity.