The old man
shook his head wearily in the drizzle. His bushy eyebrows were knitted in
annoyance, face like thunder as his companion floundered. The boy's baseball
boots slipped repeatedly, struggling for purchase on the treacherous incline. A
khaki satchel swung around his shoulder, the kind one could hardly fit anything
in. It bulged as if it might burst at any moment, threatening to throttle him
as it caught about his throat. Utterly impractical in the wilderness, of
course, as was the rest of the youth's attire. His skinny jeans were coated in
mud, while his hoodie hung heavy with rain. The Chucks skidded through the
quagmire again; only a deft lunge from the boy's closed umbrella saved him. Its
metal tip sank into a clump of turf like a climber's pick, providing purchase
as he steadied himself, dignity almost intact.
'City folk,'
muttered the old woodsman.
'What's that,
Mr Gelert?' asked Max, glancing up the slope, as he hauled himself onto firmer
ground. The man made no attempt to approach and help him, remaining where he
was, glowering with disapproval. With a sucking pop, the tattered old umbrella came loose from the wet earth, the
boy shaking mud from its end with a deft flick.
'You always
take a purse out with you?'
'Oh, this?'
said Max, patting the satchel. 'It's my messenger bag.'
'It full o'
messages then?'
'No, Mr
Gelert,' said Max, climbing ever closer. 'That'd be my supper.'
'Who you
plannin' on feedin'?' said the man, his thick accent coaxing a smile from Max.
'The five thousand?'
'Hungry work,
hiking. My old man taught me to always be prepared.'
'Your old man
a boy scout, eh?' asked the lumberjack.
'Something
like that,' said Max, pausing to take in the view from the ridge.
The sun hung
over the horizon to the west, a motley of fading colours coating the forest before
it. A great shining rainbow arced through the Massachusetts sky, its pot of
gold hidden somewhere within downtown Boston, ten miles to the north. It had
always struck Max as odd that an area so apparently wild as Blue Hills
Reservation could be sat right on his doorstep, so close to the city. He looked
back over his shoulder. A barren landscape of grey rock rolled out about him,
Buck Hill in all its grim beauty rising into the clouds. Black waves billowed through
the gloomy air, squalls of rain riding the wind and rushing over them.
Max blinked,
wiping the droplets from his eyes. Gelert chuckled.
'What's so
funny?' asked the sodden youth.
'It's bad
enough you bring a bumbershoot into the wilds, but then you don't use the darn
thing! You simple or something, boy?'
'Oh, the
umbrella? I thought I'd wait until I really needed it.'
'You're a
drowned rat!'
'This?' said
Max. 'Just a shower, Mr Gelert. Now tell me: whereabouts was this campsite?
Have we far to go?'
'Where the
hawthorn stands,' said the backwoodsman, pointing a gnarled finger a few
hundred yards beyond them. Max could see the twisted black tree clinging to the
ridge, buffeted by the harsh winds.
Max set off,
not waiting for the old man. A hand caught him across the shoulder, crooked
fingers digging through the sodden hoodie and into his collar bone. Gelert's
mouth was at his ear instantly, the grating voice causing Max to flinch.
'Might wanna
let me lead the way, boy. One wrong step and you'll be done for. You're paying
me to be your guide. Let me get you where you're going in one piece.'
Max tugged his
shoulder free. He looked about. The drop was indeed terribly sheer, the
precipice path falling away into swirling mists. He gestured ahead.
'Lead on, Macduff.'
The woodcutter
was on his way again, muttering under his breath. Max followed, shadowing every
step.
'They say
there's a monster that haunts Buck Hill, Mr Gelert.'
'Who's they then?'
'Local legend
tells of a beast that wanders the woods and trails, preying on unwary
travellers.'
'You'd best be
careful then, eh?'
'I'm always
careful,' said Max.
'You picked a
queer time of day to come snooping out here, lad.'
'Snooping's an
odd choice of word, Mr Gelert.'
'I say it as I
see it. You should've come when the sun was up, not at twilight.'
'I do some of
my best work at dusk. When it's stormy. And cold. And I'm wet through.' Max
grinned, but his eyes remained fixed upon the terrain, scouring the barren
incline. 'You must see quite a few tourists up here?'
'In tourist
season, aye,' replied the man without looking back. 'But in fall? Nothing
pretty up here, just sheer cliffs, sucking pits and no-see-ums.'
'No-see-ums?'
'Midges
that'll drink you dry, boy. Most folk who find themselves up here these months
tend to be lost. Like your friends.'
'My what now?'
'Your
friends,' said Gelert. 'At the campsite.'
'Right,' said
Max, nodding. 'And you were the last person to see them?'
'Like the
newspaper said, they passed my hut around noon. I said hello as they went on their
way. It wasn't until I was passing by a couple of days later that I found their
campsite, tents abandoned. No sign of 'em at all. Not sure what you expect to
find up here.'
'Answers,'
said Max quietly.
'They're
probably skiing in Banff or backpacking across Europe by now, darn students.'
He looked fleetingly back at Max as he trudged on, his sour demeanour never far
from the surface. 'Talkin' of students, how old are you, boy?'
'Fifteen.'
'You look a
lot younger.'
'Call it a
curse.'
'Curse.' The
woodsman grinned. 'Bit young to be at college, aren't you?'
'I'm gifted
and talented.'
'So you say,'
grumbled Gelert. 'Strikes me you're a long way from home for one so young. That
father not worried about you?'
'My parents
passed away.'
'Sorry,'
grunted the old man, his voicing lacking all sympathy. 'You got nobody then?'
Max didn't
answer, instead changing the subject. 'Funny thing is, Mr Gelert, those two
hikers-'
'Your
friends,' interrupted the lumberjack.
'Yeah, my
friends. They aren't the only folk to have gone missing on Buck Hill.'
'That so?'
'That's so.
Over the last four decades there have been numerous disappearances, each
unexplained. I counted a dozen when I checked the local newspaper archives in
Boston. You've been here all this time, Mr Gelert. Did you hear anything about
them?'
The woodsman
didn't answer, drawing ever nearer the twisted hawthorn as Max followed.
'They're
spread out over enough time that they probably don't send alarm bells ringing.
The police in Quincy certainly knew nothing.'
'Regular
little detective ain't you, boy?' said the man, coming to a halt beside the
tree. Rough, jagged bark covered its trunk, pitted by age and the elements.
Gelert extended a bony hand out and gripped a branch. 'We're here.'
Max hopped
past him, planting his umbrella point into the ground and leaning on it like a
walking stick. He let his eyes rove over the area, searching out any clues. The
campsite was set back from the cliff, the grey rock broken up by marshy ground.
Raindrops peppered the brown pools as the downpour continued. If there had been
any tracks, they were now long gone; Mother Nature had washed them off the face
of the earth.
'Do you know
if the police took their tents?' asked Max, his eyes still fixed upon the
puddles before him. He heard a groaning, creaking sound at his back, causing
him to turn.
He looked back
just as Gelert let go of the hawthorn branch, the length of wood rocketing
forward and catching Max sweet across the temple. By the time he hit the mud
with a splash, he had already blacked out.
------------------------------------------------
Two unusual
noises brought Max back to consciousness. The first was the din of a steel band
who had set up shop inside his skull, hammering their drums to their hearts'
content. It was the lord of all headaches. The second sound was of Gelert
tipping the contents of Max's messenger bag upon the ground. All of his
belongings landed in a jumbled heap, as the woodsman shook the last articles
loose with a clatter.
'What'cha got
in here, then?' said the old man, clearly to himself. Perhaps he thought Max
was still out cold. He flicked through an ancient looking leather-bound book,
shaking his head.
'Gibberish,'
he muttered, tossing it into the mud. Max winced to see Urgo's Grimoire treated so disrespectfully. That was an exceedingly
old book.
The sun had
fled the sky, black clouds billowing overhead. The rain might have ceased, but
an awful portentous feeling had settled over the mountain. It was quiet, far
too quiet, the only sounds coming from the old lumberjack. Max slouched against
the hawthorn tree, hands bound by cord at his back, battered umbrella at his
feet. He let his fingertips play against the wrist bindings, his hands moving
carefully, silently finding a way to free himself. This had gone pear-shaped in
quite spectacular fashion.
'You woken up
then, Sleeping Beauty?' said Gelert, without looking across. Max sighed, all
hopes at subterfuge gone.
'Please leave
my belongings alone, Mr Gelert.'
'Still being
polite, boy, even when in dire straits? I'll say this: you may've lost your
folks, but someone brought you up right. Nice to see respect in the youth of
today for once. I judged you as a wrong'un when I saw you at my door in that
hoodie.'
Max's eyes
narrowed as he watched the fellow rifling through his belongings. 'Appearances
can be deceiving.'
'Can't they
just!'
The woodcutter
clapped his bony hands gleefully, tearing the foil wrapping off the most
enormous - and still warm - pork pie. Max's heart sank. He had been looking
forward to that for his supper. The steam rose off it as Gelert took a bite,
the meaty juices dribbling down his jutting chin.
'That's a good
pie, boy. Not bad as an appetiser.'
Max winced.
'Appetiser?'
Gelert looked
over at the bound boy. He licked his withered, gravy-stained lips, bushy
eyebrows furrowing where they joined in the middle. Max nodded, the puzzle
falling into place like tumblers in a lock. He had been foolish, rushing in
blindly. If he'd just waited for Uncle Jed to meet him back in Quincy instead
of stepping out alone, this could have been avoided. Put it down to a desire to
impress and the impulsiveness of youth. Max rather fancied it was his
inexperience that had got him in this mess. And what a mess it was.
'You heard me
right, boy,' said the woodsman, his voice deeper, more guttural now.
'Appetiser.'
As he spoke,
Gelert grabbed the thermos flask that had tumbled from Max’s bag, unscrewing
the lid with a spin. He peered inside suspiciously.
'I wouldn't do
that if I were you,' said Max. 'You won't like it.'
'That so?
You're in no position to tell me what to do!'
Gelert took a
great swig from the flask, before spitting half the contents back out across
the grass.
'Herbal muck!'
'I did warn
you,' said Max, his hands working behind his back.
'What's wrong
with a strong black coffee?' exclaimed Gelert, wiping his tongue across his
jacket sleeve. The old woodcutter straightened himself, towering over Max.
'City folk. Coming up here with their fancy ways and flowery teas. When will
your kind learn: you ain't welcome! This is my land, boy. The Blue Hills are
mine.'
Max spied a
glow in the heavens behind the lumberjack, slowly growing in intensity behind
the thick cloudbank. Spittle frothed on the old man's lips as they peeled back
in disgust, his ire fixed upon the boy.
'You're like a
sprat swimming into a shark's mouth, thinking it a cave. You come out here,
looking for your friends, only to walk right into the same fate they did.
Idiot. I'm looking forward to this. A man spends most of the year living on
mutton, it's nice to spice up the diet occasionally.'
He snorted,
his eyes now twinkling yellow, his skin darkening.
'Can't beat a
fresh kill.'
'I have to
say, I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this,' said Max, shaking his head sadly. 'I
thought you could be reasoned with.'
The old man
cocked his head, his breathing heavy and rasping. 'You say what?'
'There are
places you could have gone to, communes for folk afflicted such as yourself.
There's an island off Cape Cod that would've been perfect for you, if you'd
wanted to go. They'd have looked after you. Taken care of you like one of their
own, without hurting anybody. If you'd wanted
to go.'
Gelert was
growling now, shaking loose his jacket, plaid shirt tearing beneath. He kicked
his boots off, one hitting the tree trunk above Max's head. The last thing Max
had expected when he woke that morning was to be confronted by a geriatric
backwoodsman performing a monstrous striptease, but life had a funny way of
throwing curveballs.
'That's just
it. You wouldn't have gone if I'd paid your boat fare, would you? You enjoy
this too much. You don't want to be civilised. You want to be a monster. How can I reason with a killer?'
'What're you
saying, boy?' snarled Gelert, his crooked yellow teeth catching one another,
too large for his mouth. His body continued to darken, sinew and tendons
creaking as his limbs changed shape. 'You know my secret?'
'Hardly a
secret now, looking at the evidence. I knew the monster was out here, just
hadn't figured it was you. I was slow getting there, but give me credit, I'm
still relatively new to this monster hunting lark. A novice, if you like. I
should've known your story was fishy when you claimed you'd said hello to those
students. I suspect there isn't a hospitable bone in your body, Mr Gelert,
human or otherwise.'
Gelert
crouched uneasily upon lupine legs. Great black claws tore from his toes,
shredded flesh discarded alongside his clothes. Dark hair grew rapidly,
spurting in clumps across his body as Max heard the monster's bones cracking.
With a sickening crunch Gelert's ribs expanded, threatening to punch their way
out of his chest. With three huge gulps of air, his torso had doubled in size,
coated in black fur.
'See, I looked
a little further back than forty years. Census records show there's always been a Gelert living in these
hills. But here's the strange bit: there's no record of any marriages down the
years. I just assumed it was overlooked, missed by the authorities. I know
you're remote up here after all. It only occurs to me now - trussed up like a
hog - that there never were any other
Gelerts, were there? I know your kind are... long-lived. Has it been just you
all this time? Don't you play well with others?'
Gelert roared,
the skin of his face splitting as canine jaws erupted, the air misting red
around him. Sharp ears rose from his thick grey hair, twitching as they
elongated with each shake of the head. Those yellow pupils glowed bright now,
twin suns of burning evil, the eyes of a hungry predator. His hands flexed on
either side of his monstrous body, hooked fingers twitching spasmodically and
scraping against one another. The clouds parted at last, the man no more, the
moon's magical glow bathing the beast in its eerie light.
Max's
movements weren't so subtle anymore. His hands were shifting frantically behind
his back, wrists straining as he rubbed the taut cord across the jagged bark.
His eyes never left the monster as it threw its head back and howled at the
night.
Then stopped.
The beast
balled its fist and struck its chest, as if clearing a tickly cough.
'Heartburn?'
asked Max.
An awful
gurgle rose from the monster's guts, causing both beast and boy to stare at its
belly in wonder. Again, the creature punched its breastbone, wheezing as it
gasped for breath.
'Spot of
indigestion?' Max paused for only a second before continuing sawing at his bonds.
'That, my
furry friend, is why I suggested you didn't drink from my flask.'
The monster
dropped to its knees, one hand clawing at the muddy earth while the other
grasped at its throat. The beast's flesh seemed to swell, the fur rippling as
huge lumps appeared beneath it. Within moments, its entire body was shuddering
and shaking, its tongue lolling from its jaws, catching upon its teeth. Those
yellow eyes were pitiful now, wide with horror as they looked down at the
spilled flask.
'I'm with you,
by the way, Mr Gelert,' said Max, finally cutting through the rope and getting
his hands free. 'I love a good mug o' joe. Can't stand that herbal tea
nonsense. But then, I hadn't intended to drink from that thermos. You clearly
didn't recognise the smell in human form: perhaps you do now? That's wolfsbane.
It was to protect myself with, to throw at the beast, should the need arise.'
Max rose
stiffly, heart racing as the monster continued transforming. Its entire torso
was bloated and swollen, getting bigger by the second, fur falling out in
patches as pink flesh turned red. It was enormous now, resembling neither man
nor beast, a gelatinous deformed blob. A terrible burning smell hit Max,
catching in his throat.
'Wolfsbane
will kill a man if ingested,' he said grimly. 'I dread to imagine what it's
doing to your innards.'
The wobbling
fiend let loose a furious cry, lurching forward from where it crouched. Its
flesh shook, the skin splitting and hissing like a sausage in a pan. Max moved
quickly, ducking to snatch up his brolly and raising it before him. He hit the
catch and it sprang open, the boy hiding behind his shield like a Spartan
warrior as the monster impaled itself upon the sharp point.
A great wet
bang filled the air, a thunderclap that heralded a most hideous explosion. Max
remained hunched as lumps of the dead monster, both large and small, spattered
the earth around him. When the last pieces of flesh had finished falling, he
rose gingerly, looking about the muddy campsite. The brown puddles now ran red,
little left of the beast bar the odd, barely recognisable body part that
littered the ground or hung from the hawthorn tree. The boy breathed a sigh of
relief.
'Werewolves,'
said Max Helsing, shaking the last pieces of Mr Gelert from his gore-slicked
umbrella. 'Always be prepared.'
