Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

[Panache]

Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

A Victorian Tale of Horror told in Chapters

Chapter 23

We left the mighty Saltire far behind as we flew North through a cold gray sky. By mid-morning our little plane had reached our destination. Projecting outwards from the thick fog that cloaked the mountain I spied sharp points of enormous slabs of ice. The peak seemed to be made of some insane jumble of titanic ice crystals that glowed dimly in the reflected weak light of the sun. I had directed my pilot to land as near to base of the mound as safety would allow. She selected a spot about a mile away from the Mountain. She apologized but due to the extreme fog at the peak’s base she was wary of attempting to land closer. I gathered my gear and exited the craft onto the frozen plain.

Stepping onto the icy surface my legs were enveloped by a thick low mist that covered them to the ankles. Immediately I was struck by a strange feeling of dizziness. In taking my first step I experienced a moment of the sensation of vertigo. There was some hazy and disorienting quality to this place that created a sensation of unreality. It was if I had somehow stumbled into a dream.

Or a nightmare.

My pilot, a handsome, thin and athletic woman who I knew to be fifty years of age, but possessing some inner luminosity that made her appear decades younger, wished to wait for me whilst I hunted. “I’m clarinetist, I play a woodwind. I’m used to danger!” she bravely offered. I shook my head “No, I want you to return to the zeppelin”, I firmly commanded and gave her a salute. She saluted back and fired up the Sparrowhawk’s engine. I watched the plane take flight and head Southward. I adjusted my pack and gave my weapons a final check before setting off toward the Mountain at the Top of the World.

The cold was bitter but my heavy winter kilt and thick hooded jacket kept me reasonably comfortable. There were strong winds that seemed to come whistling from all directions blowing small shards of ice that decreased visibility and necessitated the use of protective goggles over my eyes. Between the winds and the cold my progress was slow but steady. Halfway to the mountain I came upon a most curious and unnerving sight. For a wooden sailing ship lay before me, imprisoned in the ice. A few tattered and frozen remnants of her rigging and sails still clung to her masts. From her design I estimated she must have been built sometime during the mid 1700’s. Across her ice covered bow could be discerned her name, The Octavius. “How long ago has it been since you sailed away from Portsmouth, never to return? ” I whispered touching the ice encrusted wood. It was then that a chilling sound filled my ears and all thoughts of exploring this derelict evaporated. It was an alien, eldritch , wide-ranging piping sound -“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!” I grabbed my rifle and held it at the ready, looking for the source of the strange spine chilling noise.

There was none to be found, I stood alone on the desolate arctic wasteland.

As I looked at the Octavius it seemed like someone whispered in my ear, “There is an old, simple axiom about the dead: don’t disturb them, not for any reason at all.”

I recalled what I said to Jake aboard the Saltire, and knew in my very soul that I should heed my own words and not remain in this place. I hurried onward and left the ghost ship and her secrets to remain entombed in the polar ice.

Coming to the foot of the mountain I discovered that my aerial observations had proved correct. The entire mist shrouded mound was made of a most unnatural collection of giant interlocking shards of ice crystals. More disturbing than speculation on what freak geological phenomena could have created such a strange feature here on this barren arctic plains, was the abnormal non-Euclidean geometry of the angles formed by the mammoth blocks of ice. Like some immense impossible lithograph of that Dutch artist Mr. Escher made real, the mountain towered above me. There was naught for me to do but begin my climb. Though steep I was able to slowly find a narrow path through the giant shards and make my way upwards. There were a myriad of caves formed by these intersections of ice crystals. The mountain must have been riddled with them. I was most cautious in my ascent. I was greatly a-feared that I should be swallowed up and lost forever by some angle of crystal which shouldn’t…couldn’t exist, for here there were angles which were acute, but in manner acted as if obtuse. My progress was painfully slow. The bitter cold crept into my joints and my steps were unsteady whilst my fingers had trouble keeping their grip. My stamina and strength were sorely taxed by the chill and I was forced to stop and rest often. Worse yet was the effect of the low temperature on my already somewhat addled senses. I could not discard the feeling of being observed by some malignant entity. After several hours of slow progress I had reached a point some two thirds up the mountainside. I collapsed my weary frame on a small ledge not completely certain I had the strength to continue.

“There's two things that just can't be rushed - anyone who is paid by the hour, and a climb up an arctic mountain that shouldn’t be there in the first place” , came a voice from above me.

Startled I looked up to see a most extraordinary figure standing on the ledge above mine. It was a red haired man wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, an unattractive straw boater hat, and tennis shoes. He seemed oblivious to the sub zero temperature and squatted down on his heels to regard me with a smile.

“You aren’t real! You are a hallucination, a fluke of my imagining.” I cried with my teeth chattering.

“I love flukes! I've written some of my best stories about flukes” , the man replied.

I refused to succumb to madness like Grant and rose to my feet. “I have come this far and I will finish what I started!” I screamed at this figment of my all but frozen brain.

“If you want a job done right, you just have to foul it up yourself.” , said the man, nodding. With this he stood as well and vanished. I made my way up to the ledge above and found it empty. But his voice whispered a warning in my ear “Don't linger in the shadows”.

Finding within myself the strength to go on I set forth to finish my ascent. I was determined to get to the mountain top. Though the wind rose as the arctic storm boiled over the horizon to engulf the mountain, defiantly, I continued. As evening came, and the storm raged, I stood at the zenith of the Mountain at the Top of the World! I felt neither the wind nor the cold, but only the primal exhilaration of the hunter. Scanning the skies it was impossible to tell if the Saltire had yet reached the peak, so great was the blizzard in sound and fury. I hoped Todd had taken the airship to a safe elevation to avoid the storm's wrath. So there at this lonely perch I patiently waited till night fell and the weak lights of the Aurora Borealis appeared faintly overhead. The time had come. I drew the fetish from my belt and waved it to the sky with my left hand (as I had the great rifle tucked under my right arm).

Then above the wind’s howl came an answer to my challenge. A screeching roar filled my ears and struck fear into my very heart as I heard the cry of the Acryli-Beast! I dropped the fetish and held my rifle ready. The question of who was hunter and who the hunted was about to be answered. My eyes scanned back and forth as I waited for it to appear. The creature's cry sounded again and my flesh went prickly with goosebumps. To myself, I offered the meager assurance “At least it isn’t another damned flying squirrel!”. And then from a cave some twenty feet below me the Acryli-Beast emerged!



To Be Continued