Wild Anderson: Story with Finn and Mateo

The priest had claimed he had a map. It had grease stains and creases and the priest kept it to himself, hunching over it at night and jabbering away monotonously in that worthless language of his. It would lead them to great secrets, deep in the isolated edge of nowhere. Somehow he had managed to convince the University of this, to back him and gift him its confidence. Back there in the cool, book lined rooms of Academia, the priest had been a poised, almost charismatic figure, striding about in front of the professors of the committee, in his dark and crisp ecclesiastical robes. Now, he was a crumpled mess, obsessed and neglecting to wash, or even to eat unless the Irishman brought him food. The edge of confidence had bled away and he seemed unhinged.

Leo spoke about it to the Irishman sometimes, but the man just smiled and laughed, easy with cares as a duck in the rain. “Mr Anderson, Miskatonic gives us money. If the priest is a fool we leave him in the jungle with his worthless dreams. But if he is right.” His eyes gleamed as bright as gold, his perfect white teeth shining like a row of neat military headstones. There was a madness to the whole expedition that swept all of them up in it, and Leo was ringmaster of the whole shambling circus.

...

At the great tree line they had at last to stop their vehicles and make camp. The priest pointed with refound authority and they began to hack their way forwards, Leo breaking a trail with his machete. Its firm lash, a comfortable rhythm as they opened the jungle for the men behind. Next to him, Ted Simmons, who had been a policeman back in Chicago, and close behind Finn the Irishman and the priest himself. “I’ll go on ahead with Ted, there’s a gully we may need to work around.” The others rested on the ridge as they made their way down. The priest followed.

At the bottom of the gulley the tree canopy opened up, letting bright sunlight stream through, onto a dry bed of large stones, smooth and flat against the cliff. And there basking in the light, there it was, 12 feet of sinuous muscle, up and waving its triangular head curiously in the breeze. A small tongue flicking forwards to taste the breath of the intruders on the wind. Ted was the closest. “Stay still Ted, calm and slow. It can’t see you.”

The great serpent uncoiled and leant forwards, powerful and slow. Ted broke, running left and away, his legs pumping and scrambling back. The snake struck, faster than fear, faster than thought, struck hard and was on him. Its coils enveloping him and wrenching him down to crush him against the rocks. He tried to scream, had no breath and the popping of his rib bones echoed like gunshots.

Leo raised his machete and drove forwards. “Face me!”, and the thing heard his challenge. It tossed Ted’s broken body down and rose up, all scaled strength, cresting like a mighty wave to crash down with unstoppable force upon him. He swung hard and the beast thrust, its head smacking him down to the earth. But behind the head was only gore and blood and the writhing of its headless coils.

Leo sat up, bruised and bitter as the snake lashed out, mindless and dead. He raised his rough fist and smacked it against the stone. “Listen.” Smack. “Listen.”

The priest came down, lightly stepping across the rocks. “I knew it, the snakes were here, just as the map said.” His eyes seemed distant, but his voice was firm and content. Leo rose slowly, “You didn’t mention it.”

“They can’t hurt me, nothing can.” He pulled something out from a cord around his neck. A medallion, inscribed perhaps. “I have his protection, he has chosen me to find it, under his seal.”

Leo stepped a little closer, as if he idly shifted his weight. His thick hand closed upon the priest’s wrist. “Show me the map.”

The priest struggled, suddenly alarmed, “No. “ Leo wrenched his arms aside, seized the map and raised it up, unfurling in the breeze. Battered and dirty as it was, there could be no doubt about it. The map was blank.

The priest screamed and stumbled back. His eyes, glassy pits, gold and hollow. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen. Like an adder he plunged it into Leo’s thigh, the nib burying itself deep. And then he was off, scuttering and lunging his way across the gully and scrabbling his way up the other side.

...

Leo arrived at the ridge, approaching it bruised and sore. Blood seeping through the rough bandage on his leg. The Irishman was lounging against a tree, all mocking humour, unaffected by the sight. “The priest’s mind has cracked, and Ted’s not coming back. The map was worthless. You’ll help me back to camp. I’ve left my rifle on the truck. “

“No need to be down hearted.” The Irishman smiled. He dipped his hands into his pack and lifted up a familiar parchment, grease stained and crumpled.

“Kept it close, he did, never out of his sight. I didn’t get a proper look, so I had to give him a blank one.“ He unfurled it and everywhere there were lines and words and symbols.

“This one is much better.”

“Finn.”