He Who Drinks From Lethe... Read online

Taggart said. His voice sounded more hoarse than usual, as if the muscles in his throat had tightened considerably. Perhaps in fear, Larrigan thought.

  Smythe-Thomas, as though subconsciously sensing Taggart’s apprehension, suddenly said, “I say, there’s a bloody awful chill hereabouts. What say we move along, old stick?”

  Larrigan threw his head back and laughed. So, now the Major was frightened too, was he? It was time for Larrigan to have a little fun at Smythe-Thomas’ expense, as well as indulge his innate curiosity as an investigative journalist. He shifted the gear lever forward, gunned the throttle, and churned up the narrow creek. The suddenness of the action caught the Major unprepared. He nearly tumbled into Larrigan’s lap.

  “Wait! No, for God’s sake, man, don’t be goin’ up thar’,” Taggart said with a loud shout. He hesitated for a long moment then shaking his head with the resignation of a condemned man, took off after Larrigan and Smythe-Thomas.

  The wide-eyed Major clung so tightly to the gunnels that his knuckles turned white. “I say, Larrigan, it’s cold here. Let’s go back.”

  “The creek probably is spring fed,” Larrigan said in voice loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the straining gas engine. “That would account for the chill coming off the water.” He was a rational man, so much so that he refused to be intimidated by anyone or anything.

  “Well, at least slow down, old man.” There was a pleading tone in the Major’s voice. “If we hit a submerged log or something at this speed, we might be injured, or worse.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you, Major?” Larrigan was enjoying Smythe-Thomas’ discomfort. He continued full throttle up the narrow stream. The eerie strangeness of the area was not lost on the journalist’s well-honed powers of observation.

  Although the cypress trees were lush at their tops, nearly blotting out all sunlight, there seemed to be no greenery at their lower levels. A mist from an unidentifiable source rose slowly from the watery environs and blended with the Spanish moss that clung to the trees. The moss was incongruous this far south.

  Everything appeared stark and gray in the murky atmosphere. Unlike the river they had just left, there were no signs of wildlife here. The only sounds were the whining of the motors and the water flowing swiftly beneath the boats’ metal hulls. Even the pungent smell of the river, redolent with a variety of subtropical scents, was absent. In its place was a dank and acrid aroma with a barely perceptible and unpleasant undertone that stung the men’s nasal passages and burned their throats. Larrigan was puzzled by the fact that the creek seemed to maintain a stable width, as though it purposely had been dug, yet had all the twists and turns of a natural waterway.

  After about a mile, the stream widened into a small lake. Although more open to the sunlight than the catacomb-like stream had been, its atmosphere was equally as bleak and dismal. Its shore was lined with the remains of a dead forest, the tree trunks strangely scorched and blackened. For a moment, Larrigan thought they might be the source of the mysterious, unpleasant odor; then decided it was not charcoal, but something else that he still could not identify. He cut the engine and the skiff drifted from the creek onto the calm surface of the lake. It was then that he saw the ruined house. An atmosphere of things long dead oozed from the remains of the decaying mansion. Even with the brilliant, cloudless summer sky, the ruins were shrouded in somber darkness. Despite his cynical nature, even Larrigan was arrested by the sight.

  At one time, long ago, it must have been an antebellum showplace, he thought. Now, overgrown with long-dead vines, entombed within the shadows of decaying cypress trees, the ancient, rotting two-story mansion seemed to be collapsing upon itself. It was as though its spirit had forsaken it, leaving behind a vacuum that could not support the façade.

  After an initial glance, Smythe-Thomas refused to look at the house again. His hands continued to tightly grip the gunnels of the now-still skiff. His usually florid complexion had paled to a bloodless pallor. His breathing seemed inordinately fast. His mouth hung open as if he were struggling for air. His eyes, wide with fear, were fixed on the mouth of the stream from which they had emerged, as if it represented the only path of salvation for his very soul.

  For a moment or two, even Larrigan sensed a certain ominous quality about the place. A chill ran down his back despite the sweltering heat.

  At that moment, Taggart and Sir Edward arrived in their small boat. The guide immediately spun his craft around so that his back was to the decomposing ruins. As he pulled alongside the other boat, he reached out with his one arm and grasped Larrigan’s left wrist. Despite the thickness of the journalist’s limb, Taggart’s scared, leathery hand closed around it with surprising force.

  “Dammit, man,” the guide said, “I warned you not to come here. Now, start yore damn engine and let’s get goin’. Quick.”

  “Why? This looks like a good spot to fish.”

  “Ain’t no fish here. Ain’t nuthin’ here. Let’s go!”

  “I’ll make you a deal, Taggart,” Larrigan said. “You tell me what it is about this place that has you so spooked, then we’ll leave.”

  “Ain’t nuthin’ to tell. C’mon!”

  “Not until you tell me the boogeyman story that has you locals scared shitless.”

  Just then there was a flash of lightening so brilliant and blinding that it reminded Larrigan of phosphorus grenades he had encountered in a dozen war zones. It was followed almost immediately by a deafening explosion of thunder. The suddenness startled the party and all four men craned their necks to gaze at the swiftly gathering storm clouds.

  “Oh dear, it does seem that we are in for a bit of nasty weather,” Sir Edward said. “Perhaps it would be best if we went along now.”

  Larrigan cast one more glance of curiosity at the old house, then reluctantly turned the bow of his skiff to follow Taggart back down the dark creek.

  They arrived back at Taggart’s ramshackle fish camp near the confluence of the river and the Gulf of Mexico just ahead of the daily summer downpour. The camp was a vision from Florida’s pioneer past. Boards of sun-bleached Florida slash pine were capped by a rusting corrugated metal roof. The whole affair was perched on rotting palmetto log pilings above the sluggish, coffee colored waters. Access was by means of a short pier that listed badly to one side. A muddy path led from it to a rudimentary boathouse. It was large enough to shelter three or four small skiffs, and consisted of decaying sabal palm trunks that braced a few heavily corroded sheets of metal. The entire encampment appeared to be facing momentary collapse. In reality, the structures had survived hurricanes whose fury had flattened more substantial, modern buildings. The setting reminded Larrigan of scenes from the countless Jungle Jim Saturday matinees of his boyhood.

  Taggart’s skiff roared up to the pier. He cut his engine with a practiced skill that brought the craft to a gentle halt against one of the pier’s wooden pilings. In a single, seemingly effortless motion he leaped from the skiff to the dock and tossed a mooring line to Eli, the ancient black man who worked for him. It was an amazing display of agility for a man of Taggart’s girth; a man who had the use of only one arm for balance.

  Smythe-Thomas, still looking a bit wan, staggered onto the dock. “I say, Taggart, be a good chap and have your wog fetch me a bloody gin and tonic, directly.”

  Taggart shouldered his way brusquely past the Englishman, nearly knocking him from the dock as he did so. With a singleness of purpose, the guide strode up the few steps from the pier to the fishing shack, yanked open the screen door and proceeded directly to the pantry. After rummaging through it for several moments with his one arm, he stepped back with a bottle of Jack Daniels clutched tightly in his hand. This was private stock. He kept it well hidden for just such crisis situations as the one this day had brought. A look of genuine relief immediately replaced the grimness that earlier had etched itself into his weathered features.

  Still shaken from the unwilling foray up the sinister creek, his trembling hand poured four fin
gers of whiskey into an old jelly glass. He downed it in a single gulp. Larrigan, who had just entered the shack, nodded appreciatively. Even his hard-drinking Irish father would have admired the feat.

  The guide exhaled a long, deep sigh and refilled the glass. This time he sipped the whiskey, accompanying it with a seemingly endless chain of Camels from the pack in his shirt pocket. Typical of people who live their entire lives in isolated rural areas, Taggart was both laconic and xenophobic. This night, however, he was more reticent than usual, almost to the point of hostility toward the others, particularly Larrigan.

  A crude partition divided the cabin into two areas. A kitchen-living-dining room combination occupied the front portion. Sleeping quarters were in the rear. While Taggart chain-smoked his way silently through the bottle of Jack Daniels, Sir Edward took a pre-prandial nap. Larrigan sat at the dinner table drinking a cold beer and watched Smythe-Thomas match Taggart drink for drink with gin and tonic. Above the table, a small fan powered by an emphysematic generator feebly stirred the hot, damp air in the cabin. The table itself was a roughhewn, handmade affair harboring the dents and gouges of years of hard use. It doubled as the social center of the camp. The men ate at it, drank at it, and, as was their