Colonel Barrington of the 49th Foot recounts a strange adventure from his youth.
Guest Story by Zyzzyva
tags: the Ocean Sea
Colonel Barrington was enjoying both the walk and the company.
The arrival, that morning, of a distant acquaintance’s daughter from the West Country who was passing through the county, had been unexpected but hardly unwanted. And she had brought along a still more distant cousin, Miss Celia Lockwood, who had been charming in the extreme. He had had them brought a quick lunch, and regaled them with some old war stories, by the end of which Miss Lockwood had been quite shyly excited to stay a while longer. Catherine had protested, feebly, about their need to make it to the railhead by evening, but was clearly not too unhappy about it. And then Miss Lockwood had asked him to show her the grounds.
He accepted, of course. If he hadn’t been a widower, and sixty-three and retired from a great many years’ service in the Empire, he might almost have thought that she was flirting with him. As it was, he supposed, she simply really was interested in listening to him ramble about his past. They walked into the silent, leafy parkland at the edges of the gardens, and he allowed himself to enjoy her company.
There were certainly worse companions to take an afternoon walk through the grounds with. Miss Lockwood was petite, and delicate, in a conservative dress with a high neckline and narrow waist, and a large bustle that practically dwarfed the rest of her. He had wondered a little about that as they set out down the gravel paths, but she seemed to be doing all right maneuvering it around the countryside, so he had kept poring through his stack of tales instead. He had a number of them polished up, from years of recounting, and quite a few of them appropriate for mixed company. It was, after all, very flattering to have such a lovely young lady hanging off his every word.
A few hundred yards away from the house, he came to one of his better tales: the isolated rock in the mid-Atlantic with an inexplicable ruined pagan temple on it. Which was more or less how he described it: “I was on the troopship Ushant with the rest of the 49th of Foot, headed for the Cape and points east, when we came across an island—a rock, really—uncharted but with a little pagan temple on it.”
“A temple?” asked Miss Lockwood, her eyes shining with excitement at this unexpected direction for the tale.
“Indeed. All great basalt blocks, in a ring not quite closed all around, with a half-fallen dome overtop.” He was a plain-spoken man, mostly, but something about this tale brought out the gothic romance of his youth. “And an ancient, stained altar in the centre.” Miss Lockwood shivered appropriately.
“So you went into it?” she asked, gazing in awe at him.
“I did. The captain and the colonel—I was just a major in those days—agreed to weigh anchor and investigate. I went ashore with the party and we looked around. And claimed the island for the Crown, it being uncharted, and all.”
“Of course,” agreed Miss Lockwood, with a smile. “What was inside?”
“The islet was rocky and steep-sided, with one rough stair rising right out of the sea. As if it were the last peak of drowned Atlantis or such. We tied the boat there and climbed to the summit—there was nothing else on the island but the temple, no room for anything else.”
“And the temple?”
“Great slabs of cyclopean basalt, unmortared. The walls twelve feet high if they were an inch, and thirty feet between them inside. No doorway, just a break in the wall. And in the centre, facing the entrance, a single piece of obsidian shaped as an altar.”
“Did you take anything from there?” asked Miss Lockwood, eagerly.
“I did, actually. There were a number of knives—sacrificial knives, no doubt—laying around the altar, and I brought one back with me. It’s in a case back at the manor, with some of my other souvenirs. I could show it to you when we return, if you like.”
“That was all?” asked Miss Lockwood, sounding suddenly very frustrated.
“Er—yes, it was—”
“What about the crown?”
“I—what?”
“We’re far enough out of sight of the house now, I suppose,” said Miss Lockwood, under her breath.
Then her dress exploded.
Thick, muscular tentacles of grey-orange flesh burst from beneath it. In a horrified instant, before he could even blink in shock, they were all over him. Each one was lined with an endless succession of tiny suckers and they clung to his flesh and his clothes tightly, while the muscle behind them tightened, around his chest, his arms, his throat, his face.
Miss Lockwood’s upper half, still neatly dressed, turned atop the mass of octopoidal flesh. “The Bone Crown, you thief. You and your vandal comrades desecrated the Temple at the Centre of the World, and you stole the Bone Crown. Who took it? Where is it!?” She was snarling now.
Colonel Barrington could hardly speak. There was barely any air left in his lungs, the tentacles were tightening and tightening, and he felt a terror he hadn’t since the first time he’d ever come under fire nearly half a century before. He gagged incoherently.
The tentacles behind Miss Lockwood, the ones that weren’t crushing him, gently splayed out in all directions, lowering her human upper half towards him. “If you only took a knife, then someone else took the Crown, and you know who it is. Give me his name or I’ll pulp you right here.” Her face was inches away from his. Rage burned in her eyes. Some of the tentacles were under his shirt now, the suckers popping painfully on and off of his skin as they coiled around him.
“C—Costigan! Lieutenant Costigan!” gasped Barrington.
“That will do,” said Miss Lockwood, flatly, and pulled away. As she did the colonel felt an agonizing sting in his ankle, and darkness descended around him.
She stretched, flexing her shoulders as best she could in the starchy dress, and enjoying the feel of the fresh air on her lower limbs. She was splayed across the path, five arms reaching out happily into the dirt and grass around her, the other three reluctantly loosening from the robber’s body. He was still breathing, shallowly, but his skin was purpling all over with bruises from her none-too-gentle grip. It was better than he deserved. As it was, her venom would keep him unconscious for a day or two—more than enough time for him to be found—and scramble his understanding of the last few hours enough to keep her secret safe in the landbound world.
She had a name. Lieutenant Costigan, of the 49th Foot. He was the one. After all this time, she was one person away from the Bone Crown, from the restoration of the Temple at the Centre of the World. Her hands, and all eight of her lower arms, were trembling with excitement. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. Then she began carefully packing herself back into her skirts, muscle and flesh folding and tensing until she could—just—fit herself under the bustle. It was unpleasant, almost painful, squeezing so tight for so long, but it was far easier than listening to that pirate prattle on about his murdering and his looting, pretending to be impressed.
The tips of her arms pulled the hem of the dress down and she brushed it straight with her hands. There. She looked human again, at least to a first glance, and could get back to her human “cousin.” They would make for the railhead, head to London, and search the records for this Costigan. She was so close.
“Miss Celia Lockwood” smiled to herself, and her flesh rippled into motion beneath her staid dress. She glid gracefully towards the house, and towards the Bone Crown.
Author’s Note: This story is a bit of a collaborative effort. I bought a commission (the story art) from Jill‘s Inktober sale, and she produced this lovely piece. She asked if I had a name for the character, and I named her on the spot; she then suggested I write a story for her, and within an hour I had the rough outline of The Bone Crown in mind. And now it’s the first story of mine that Devi has kindly offered to host! Go team!