The Great Tome of Cryptids and Legendary Creatures: The Great Tome Series, #4

These stories are works of fiction.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or undead is coincidental and vaguely disturbing.

Introduction: Defying Logic and Science

Well, that wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the previous book, said Darwin as Cassandra completed her Z23-A report on her datapad.

I wouldn’t say the previous book was terrifying, she replied. Disturbing, yes. Not terrifying. She tilted her head and glanced at Darwin with a grin. And since when are you such a baby? You are supposed to be my brave defender.

I’m not being a baby! Darwin rubbed his hand through his hair and smirked. And, yes, I know that sounded whiny just now.

Cassandra reviewed the report one last time and clicked SEND. She then turned off the datapad and went over to the card catalog. She pulled open one of the ancient drawers and began the imaging process for the file cards.

I thought we agreed that, after that book, you would file the 9R-3?

I never agreed to that.

Cassandra, it has been nine days since we discovered that chamber.

I know it has been nine days. That is why I had to file the Z23-A.

Darwin stormed over to the card catalog and slammed the drawer shut. "We need to alert the Council. Now."

What are you doing!? You are going to damage an artifact like that!

Listen...to...me. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. She immediately pulled back and pushed him away.

"Don’t touch me!"

Darwin held up his hands. Fine. Okay. I’m sorry. But you need to listen to me, Cassandra. You have established yourself with the research we already completed. We can file the 9R-3 and get elder scribes in here to examine that...that chamber. Nobody can take the credit away from you at this point.

"What are you so afraid of? Nothing has threatened us in the slightest. Whatever technology is at work here wants us to research these tomes! We are on the cusp of a major discovery! I can feel it."

"But that is the problem. I’m not seeing evidence that what is going on here is technological in nature. Nothing that is going on in that chamber applies to the laws of science."

Darwin, we are scientists. Our entire existence is built on the scientific method. And the scientific method doesn’t assume something is magical simply because it isn’t yet understood.

"Fine. But we don’t understand any of this. So let’s get some elder scribes in here with more experience that might."

Darwin, we are perfectly safe—

A deep, guttural snarl echoed up the stairs from the chamber. Darwin reached for his blaster. The snarl was followed by an odd, almost metallic chirping sound.

Cassandra motioned to the probe. Darwin nodded and took a defensive position in front of her as she activated the probe to investigate the stairwell. Despite the probe picking up no signs of life, the strange animal-like sounds continued to come up from the chamber.

Stay here, said Darwin. He carefully moved toward the stairs, blaster drawn. As he reached the doorway of the chamber, the sounds stopped. He heard Cassandra’s footsteps coming behind him. You just don’t listen, do you?

It was probably a recording of some kind, she said.

Maybe. But we did a full scan of the room and found no audio or video equipment.

"We didn’t find anything we recognized as audio or video. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there."

Darwin stepped into the chamber and thought he saw movement to his right. He turned quickly, ready to fire his blaster, but there was nothing there. However, the book immediately in front of him was now unlocked. He put the blaster away and sighed.

Go ahead, he said. Get your book.

Cassandra retrieved the book from the pedestal and they both returned to the main library hall. Cassandra opened the book to the title page.

The Great Tome of Cryptids and Legendary Creatures

Cryptid? That sounds familiar, said Darwin.

The ancients practiced a field of scientific study called cryptozoology. A cryptid was an animal whose existence had been suggested based on civilian observation, but never observed in a scientifically-sound environment.

"Right, Dr. Kinneral’s Scientific Fallacies of Ancient Civilizations mentioned them. Alleged creatures that defied all logic and science."

Yeah, like the chamber? Cassandra nudged Darwin playfully before settling in to read.

The Voice of Thunder

By Taylor Harbin

––––––––

The air was still on that afternoon in May 1970. The ancient doors of the Ste. Genevieve Catholic church opened and the mourners filed into the street. A military detail loaded the coffin into a waiting hearse. It was only two miles to the Valle Springs Cemetery.

Andrew Leonard heard the clicks of the escorts’ shoes as they marched in perfect step to Corporal Carlos Blanche’s final resting place.

Close behind them, doing his best to walk in a similar dignified manner, was Patrick Allen. Andrew waited while the service concluded. Committing the body. Twenty-one guns. Taps. The flag of a grateful nation.

Right, Andrew thought.

Family, friends, acquaintances, and sympathetic locals paid their respects and moved on. Mrs. Blanche was taken away with her parents. Only Andrew, Patrick, and the grave caretaker remained.

Good send-off. He would have liked it, Andrew said.

Patrick nodded. I just saw his face an hour ago. Now that the lid’s closed, he’s already fading.

That’s why we take pictures, Andrew said. He pointed to his heart. But the most important parts of him will live on right here.

How’s Miriam getting along? Patrick asked.

Fine, I guess, Andrew said. She’s eight months now. Can’t imagine how that feels; grief and a cocktail of hormones.

Just one more baby who won’t have a father. One more murder.

Andrew put an arm around his shoulder. Come on. Let’s get out of here and leave this gentleman to his work. You haven’t had your hero’s welcome yet.

No, I can’t. I’m no hero. It should have been me.

Hey, stop that. Come on. We’re going for a drive.

Andrew drug him to the bottom of the hill, where he’d parked the Chevy Malibu. When he turned the keys, the radio kicked on. A newsman was talking about the shootings at Kent State and the increasing fallout over the Cambodia campaign. Andrew switched it off and put the car in gear.

Where do you want to go?

Nowhere, Patrick said. Take the scenic route.

How about a couple of drinks? We’ll go to St. Mary. No one’s waiting for you there. Andrew nudged him with his elbow. My treat.

I told you, no hero’s welcome, Patrick said.

Andrew eased the car onto Rozier Street. It’s not. We’re going out. You get dinner. I get the drinks.

I’m broke. No job yet, Patrick said.

Fine. I’m buying and you pay me back whenever.

He glanced at Patrick, the star running back, the undisputed mustache king of his senior class, the one with all the right stuff.

What am I supposed to say to him now?

How have you been? Patrick asked.

Can’t complain, Andrew said. Been working part-time at Country-Mart while chipping away at a history degree.

What’re you going to do with that?

Teach, maybe. I hear that State Parks is thinking about buying one of the old houses downtown. Might get lucky.

That’s all we can hope for these days.

Andrew tapped the brake as they took the final curve and came to the little town of St. Mary. The tavern was right off the main drag. Since the evening crowd hadn’t shown yet, they enjoyed premium parking on the gravel lot.

Hope you don’t mind this grease pit, Andrew said. I ain’t broke, but I’m close.

Patrick shrugged. As long as they don’t serve K-rations. There was the hint of a grin on his face.

There’s the joker I remember, Andrew thought. Now all I’ve gotta do is convince him to stay.

Inside, they hunkered down in a booth in the back. Andrew flashed two fingers at the bartender, who produced two beers. Patrick stared at the menus on their table. His mustache was coming back and his hair was getting longer.

I know you don’t want me to say it, but I’m glad you’re back. We all are. Forget being a hero. You’re family.

Patrick looked up. Thanks. I’m glad to be back. Just didn’t think I’d be coming back alone.

You’re not alone, Andrew said. The usual?

Patrick nodded. Andrew hollered for two chili dogs, and the food appeared at once.

Well, Andrew said, picking up his fork. Carlos, this one’s for you. Rest in peace.

Here here, Patrick said.

They ate the first few bites in silence. More customers were starting to come in and the jukebox was put to work.

I’m done, Patrick said, finishing the chili dog. Let’s get out of here.

Andrew nodded. Sure. We’ll call it even.

Outside, the sun was setting. As they drove back towards town, Andrew tried in vain to find a station that wasn’t playing anti-war songs or continuing their coverage of the last few weeks. He turned the dial all the way to one side and was saved by Johnny Cash.

You said you’re at SEMO? Patrick asked.

Yeah, going for my BA.

No trouble?

Trouble? I don’t know what...oh, no, none that I’m aware of.

They were waiting for us at the airport, once I got State-side, Patrick said. They threw stuff. They spit. He rolled the window down.

Forget about them, Andrew said. Forget all of them. They don’t care about you, or beating the Reds, or helping others. Protesting makes them feel important. I don’t care what anyone else said. You’re home now and no one in this town would da—

WATCH IT!

Andrew locked his elbows and crushed the brake pedal. The Malibu squealed as it came to a halt. His heart pounded as he tried to make sense of what he was looking at.

It had just lighted on the ground from a nearby tree and was stretching a pair of wings that spanned both lanes. It folded them in and stared at the men with two great red eyes. Andrew had to lean forward to take in its full height.

What...what is—

Another car was coming from the other direction. Andrew could see the driver’s stupefied expression as he stopped and stepped out. The great bird ignored him and kept its stare fixed on the humans in front.

Andrew swallowed. That ain’t no turkey vulture. No eagle I’ve ever seen. He shivered. Is there a cold front coming through?

The man was moving closer to the beast. He failed to notice the car that was behind his. The driver either didn’t care about the bird or hadn’t seen it. He honked. The bird whipped its head around and let out a piercing screech before spreading its wings and shooting into the sky with one beat. Andrew jumped out of the car and looked up, but it was gone. All that remained was the churning air from somewhere in the sky.

Holy Mary! The other man said, crossing himself. "Did you see that? Did you see that?"

Yeah I saw, Andrew said. That wasn’t an ordinary bird.

If...that thing ever comes by my place, I’ll kill it.

The car behind him honked again.

All right! All right!

Everyone returned to their vehicles.

Well, that sure was something, Andrew said. Big buzzard! I want to know what he eats for breakfast. Sure as we’ve seen it, there’ll be a stink in the paper tomorrow.

Patrick nodded. Take St. Mary’s Road. I want to drive around a bit longer.

Ok. Andrew wondered how Patrick could dismiss it so easily.

At the crossroad, Andrew turned right and glided along the edge of the Big Field. The five-mile strip of land had produced the bulk of the town’s food since the 1740s. Now, as it had so often in the past, the soil was budding with green promises. They hadn’t gone far when they saw her.

Hey, is that...?

Yeah. Pull over, Patrick said.

Andrew parked the Malibu right behind the Ford truck. Miriam Blanche was sitting in the bed, looking over the Big Field. She balanced a Hermes typewriter in her lap. There was hardly any room left on her legs thanks to her swollen belly.

What are you doing out here? Patrick said, touching her shoulder. Something wrong?

Miriam leaned her head towards him but didn’t try to smile. I’m fine, just had to get away from the family for a bit. You’re not getting into trouble, are you?

‘Course not, Andrew said. That’s for the weekend. He pointed at the Hermes. Writing a friend?

Miriam ran her fingertips along the machine’s crinkle green paint. There was no paper in the platen.

I got this for Carlos before he shipped out. You remember, Patrick? She laughed once. We looked all over the place for a store with one that we could afford. Ended up driving all the way to Farmington, and even then, the salesman tried to hype it up. ‘This is the Baby,’ he said. ‘John Steinbeck used one to write his best stuff.’ It’s battered, but it still works. Carlos used to say, ‘Baby writes my baby ‘bout making babies.’ She was giggling now and put the machine aside. I saved all of his letters. I think they’d make a nice present for the baby when it comes. It’s the only way he’ll ever know his daddy.

He wrote a lot, Patrick said. Every chance he got. Typed so much that LT threatened to send him to battalion as a secretary. He would have hated that. He couldn’t stand being cooped up indoors.

Typical farm boy, Miriam said. I want my baby to know all of the sounds. The frogs, the birds, the bugs. Every flower and tree, before he grows up and has to live in the world of metal and plastic. She wiped tears from her eyes. He would have loved to teach him that.

Patrick hugged her and then looked at Andrew. Why don’t you go on home? I’m going to stay here a bit, see she gets in all right.

Ok, Andrew said. Hey, you know what’d be fun? Let’s go out, the three of us, tomorrow night.

Patrick was sitting next to Miriam in the bed of the truck, a consoling arm around her shoulder.

Well, I’ll ring you tomorrow, then. Good night.

He cast a final glance at them through his rear-view mirror as he pulled back onto the road and drove into the historic district.

Who am I kidding? he thought. Poor kids. Besides Carlos’ folks, I think they’ve been hit the hardest of all. Widowed mother with a kid on the way, and his best friend who was there when he died. And what have I been doing while they were fighting for their country? Kicking back with a student deferment. I must sound like an idiot to them.

It wasn’t until he pulled into the driveway of his house that he remembered the giant bird again, and how he’d forgotten to ask if Miriam had seen it.

Big buzzard.

He opened the car door and noticed at once. The air was frigid. Andrew unlocked the front door and checked the thermometer in the kitchen window. Forty-nine degrees, twenty degrees lower than the forecasted high for that day.

Guess the skeeters won’t be out, he thought.

* * *

Where can I find the bread?

Andrew looked up from the shelf of canned soup he was stocking. It was Mrs. McNair, wearing the same wide-brimmed glasses that couldn’t read the aisle signs but could always find him.

That’s aisle six, ma’am.

I need help on lane five! someone called from the front.

Excuse me, Andrew said.

The customer had filled his cart to the brim, and once bagged, the goods spilled over and were forming a pile on the floor.

You mind helping me, son? the man said. My back ain’t right and the doc said no heavy lifting if I can avoid it.

He steadied himself on the cart as Andrew pushed it. When the doors opened, he braced. But the air was pleasant, and he did not know why he feared otherwise.

Appreciate it, fella, the man said as Andrew started lowering the bags into the trunk. Good to know I can still get service if I ask nicely.

Manners will get you everywhere, as my mom used to say, Andrew replied

I guess this world ain’t so crazy after all. The man glanced up at the sky. I tell ya, back in my day you’d never have seen these hippies running around singing songs and waving their arms in the air. No sir. Didn’t see them blacks burning up the town, either. Everybody knew their place. We all knew we was right at the bottom and nobody asked for more.

I’m sure, Andrew thought.

Thanks for the tip, Andrew said. He closed the trunk. Have a nice day.

One of the collection points for the carts was full. Andrew figured he had time for that before his shift ended. As he pushed hard