The Forever Man (W.A.R.P. 3)

Constable Cryer’s unconscious state afforded Isles all the time he needed to congratulate himself on his one-blow knockout by whispering ‘You never lost it, baby’ to himself and to slide back the bolt of the jail door and slip quietly into the cell, which he did without delay.

Inside was something he had almost given up on ever seeing again. Three gold letters on a blue uniform. Not the kind of jumpsuit he remembered, but close enough.

Say them aloud, he thought to himself. Make it real.

So he did. ‘F … B … I.’

If Isles expected a reaction of some sort from the person, creature, wearing the federal uniform, he was disappointed. The cat-girl was alive, but she huddled in the corner and did nothing more than stare into space and shiver slightly. So Isles leaned closer. ‘ FBI,’ he repeated, then tapped his own chest. ‘Fair-brother Isles. Geddit? I’m Club Fed.’

The poor cat-girl apparently did not geddit, and so, sighing, Isles lifted her bodily.

‘Goddamn wormhole mutations,’ he said to himself, he supposed, as it was obvious the unfortunate time traveller over his shoulder did not understand a word coming out of his mouth. ‘Better get you back to the field office.’

Isles left the cell with his cargo slung fireman-lift-style over one shoulder. He thought about kicking Cryer in the rump on the way past, but decided against it, not out of the goodness of his heart but because a sharp pain in the rear end might actually wake up the snoring town crier. So instead he stepped over the constable, slipped through the unguarded western gate and disappeared into a copse that ran through the fens, displaying a level of sneakiness that could only have been learned in Quantico.

On with the Show

Albert Garrick had indeed summoned the townsfolk to a meeting, though he had no authority from Parliament, the king, Levellers or any of the other factions currently claiming dominion over England. Indeed, not since the tribal age had the country seen such turmoil, which suited Garrick to perfection. King Charles was being jostled from one prison to another like some prize bull, and local lad Oliver Cromwell was struggling to hold a divided Parliament together. Outlaws and brigands raided the county, plague was forever rising in black waves that could consume a town in days, and the dispossessed roamed the country roads like staggering corpses, their hollow eyes pleading for food, their stick-thin arms outstretched for alms.

Mandrake survived because it was too small and remote to be of any strategic use, surrounded as it was by fens, bogs and thick wedges of forest, and too large to be overrun by bandits. The watch was vigilant, and the militia was trained and armed with cannons and four-foot matchlocks that sat in notches along the walls. In peacetime Mandrake was situated in the worst possible place for a town, being far from main roads or river transport, but in dark times there wasn’t a safer band of goodly souls than the residents of Mandrake’s Groan, tucked inside the town walls with their faith and deep wells to sustain them.

But then came the abomination and the whispers of witchcraft. Of course people were not fools; whenever days were dire the first cry to arise was that of Witchcraft, usually from the hysterics and zanies. And most days these cries were treated with the contempt and scoffing they deserved.

However, two years ago a creature had come stumbling into the town from the fens with steam rising from its hide. A creature that was undeniably the work of some dark power. The head was human and so was part of a shoulder, but the rest …

The rest was a great lizard with hooked talons and a broad, powerful tail that swung like the reaper’s scythe, slicing flesh and breaking bones. It blundered through the market gate and sliced two horses to bloody shreds before it was herded back the way it had come by militiamen, and it shambled into the marsh fog, howling a scream of the damned.

The entire town had seen it. The escaped slave, Fairbrother Isles, had watched from the stocks and nearly tore the restraints from their hinges in an attempt to remove himself from harm’s way.

It was recorded in the parish diary that:

A great beast, with aspects of man and lizard, emerged from the white mist and did make a great rampage through the fair, doing an amount of damage to beast and produce. Though stout-hearted men set upon it with musket and stave, no mark could be made on the beast’s hide and it fled to the marsh and can still be heard screaming by night.

This account was signed by a dozen witnesses and marked with an X by twice as many again who could not write.

There were monsters in the world and none could deny it. Word was sent to Huntingdon and help sought, but the government officials had matters of more import on their platters than wild tales of devil spawn, and not a single soldier was sent to aid the besieged townsfolk. Next a petition was sent to Matthew Hopkins, the notorious Witchfinder General, but it seemed as though Master Hopkins was wading through a good body of witches himself and so sent a man in his stead. A man in whom he placed the utmost trust: Witchfinder Albert Garrick. A man on the rise, so they said in the witch business. A man who could sniff out Satan, wherever he lurked and sniggered.

It was said that Oliver Cromwell, whose own aunt was purported to have been killed by a coven of witches, once consulted Albert Garrick, though publicly he denied any specific opinion on the witch-hunts.

Garrick came and paused for barely an hour to tear at a loaf of bread and down a jug of bitter wine before off he went into the fens at moonrise, with the light glinting on the twin swords in his fists. The townsfolk lined the walls, following Garrick’s path across the moors, then into the whiplash rushes and then into the deep snarls of the fens, where his rangy figure merged with the dark shapes. For three days the Witchfinder was gone, but return he did, dragging the beast’s corpse behind him; the creature’s eyes were like burning coals, shining through a crust of lizard blood.

Garrick had stood outside the northern gate to the town and declared that he would not enter unless his terms were agreed to.

There be witches here! he had stated. This creature is witch-born. And I must have payment to deal with the devil’s crones.

The townsfolk agreed without quibble and so Garrick’s reign of purification began.

Seven women Garrick sniffed out and forced confessions from. They confessed to witchcraft and collusion with spirits and casting curses upon their neighbours and calling forth monsters from the earth. The common folk of Mandrake were horrified that these evildoers had lived for so long in their midst. The midwife Millicent Lewis, so trusted for her gentle nature and healing elixirs, now admitted to secretly baptizing babies for Lucifer once they were in her arms. Christabella Clopton, always believed to be nothing more harmful than an old bedlam, now professed that she danced with spirits at full moon. And the dreadful list went on.

More abominations emerged from the fens. A giant ape with the arms of a man, for instance, and, worst of all, a flying snake that could not breathe fire, as the story was now told in the Huntings, but which did have foul and sulphurous breath. Garrick dispatched them all, with a degree of enthusiasm for the combat that drew queasy glances from the townsfolk. Often it seemed that the Witchfinder was so grievously wounded that he could not possibly survive but, following a night’s vigil, Albert Garrick would emerge from his spartan room, without so much as a scratch where there had been a wound or gash the previous night, and take his trademark deep bow to the assembled citizens.

For a full year Garrick held this post, amassing quite the purse of gold for his labours.

His Herculean labours, as his lackey Godfrey Cryer often described them, skirting blasphemy by citing false gods.

Then, one morning, off he went into the fens for his customary morning patrol, with his high leather boots to protect his breeches from the snap of reeds, and a leather satchel of meat and bread, and he returned not.

Days passed. Then weeks. A trepidatious search party poked through the marshes, hallooing the Witchfinder’s name but without success.

Most presumed him dead, for he took no gold with hi

m, but Cryer always believed his spiritual master would return.

There is evil yet abroad in the fens, he said when he wasn’t wasting good working hours trying to change the town’s name to Garrickston or some such variation on his hero’s name.

And now the constable was proven right, for Garrick had indeed returned, with a witch in one fist and her familiar in the other. And when Albert Garrick, the scourge of evil, called a meeting in the House of Unfortunates, then brave was the individual who took it upon himself not to attend.

The House of Unfortunates was the place where the infirm, unsound and lawless were interned on the upper floor with only the most casual guard, for most were happy to be there. The alternative was desolation outside the town walls with nothing but skin-and-bone rabbits and sour berries to sustain them. The ground floor, or long hall, was used for the serious business of visiting masters, magistrates or coroners and such. Above the yawning hearth there was inscribed in the stone: FOR JUDGEMENT IS WITHOUT MERCY TO ONE WHO HAS SHOWN NO MERCY.

As for Garrick, he was more interested in the judgement section of that Biblical quote than in the mercy part.

For judgement I do so enjoy but mercy not so much.

This is not to say that Albert Garrick had never shown mercy in his year as Witchfinder. In fact, he had twice granted women their freedom, but only because he suspected that they might actually be witches and would in some way cheat death, as he himself had, and return to do him grievous harm.

Only kill the innocent, became his motto. It was not always practical, he knew, and so he tagged on the addendum where possible. For sometimes even the guilty cannot tell themselves apart from the innocent.

But not I, thought Garrick, as he gazed upon the congregation, their eyes rapt, marvelling at his dramatic return. I am the bad man. I am the worst man. And now that I understand what is occurring here, I intend to take full advantage of it.

For Albert Garrick now had greater plans than simply taking revenge on a boy. Yes, he had dreamed about this day for centuries but only as a whimsy, a distraction from the pressures of eternity, from the constant siren song of the wormhole, which promised him such power if only he would return to its soft embrace.

But power ain’t what Albert Garrick is after, thought the Witchfinder/illusionist/assassin. Magic is what I crave.

Jeronimo Woulfe was the mason whose hands had fashioned the gargoyles that adorned both the hall roof and the mantel of the fireplace that warmed Garrick’s back – for he had been so cold since the Sicilian grave robbers exhumed his corpse-like frame. Now, this man, Woulfe, cleared his throat and stepped from the crowd.