Unabashed

A man crouched in an alleyway paved with centuries-old stone in Prague, deep in thought, absently chewing on the remains of a piece of rotting salt pork. The weather was wet with drizzle and the clouds sagged heavy and low to Earth, covering the tops of the buildings around him. He had the vagrant look of a beggar: his clothes were dirty and worn; he wore brown trousers and a wool trench coat and had a satchel resting against his hip, its strap slung across his chest; he wore a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and square-buckled shoes. But he had a surprisingly clean and complete set of teeth pulling on the salt pork, each one sharp as a shark’s. He had unblemished skin as smooth and black as oil, and a pair of lively, energetic amber eyes. His stature was diminutive: he was barely five feet tall. His clothing, while worn, did have a purposeful appearance, as if to shield him as much as possible from sunlight, or to hide his appearance altogether from other people.

He was known as the Griffin, although Griffin was not his name. His true name was Hillock, and he longed to use that name again though it had been many years since he had. There was a time when the name of Hillock would strike fear in the hearts of men throughout the world, but that was a long, long time ago. Now, if it was known that he drew breath in this world, he would be hounded unmercifully until he was dead and his body was dismembered and burned and the ashes scattered to the four corners of the globe. He chose the name Griffin as his alias because it represented a great duality: half eagle and half lion, it was a great beast, just as Hillock was a great beast, although he might not look it, except for the shark’s teeth. Also, the griffin of myth was said to represent strength and vigilance. In those first years of solitude in the great frozen arctic north, Hillock found out what strength and vigilance truly were. So, when he finally came to Prague in search of answers that he couldn’t divine on his own, and in needing to choose a name, he chose Griffin. Then he made contact with the Pallium.

He stood and wiped his hands on his coat, looking up into the hanging fog. A man approached from behind him.

“Tell me; why do they call you ‘the Griffin?’” the man asked, smiling, completely at ease in the presence of the tiny monster.

“It represents duality,” Hillock replied with a nonchalant wink in the opposite direction of the man who’d asked the question.

“Are you two people?” the man smirked.

“I’m not even one.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Not a soul on Earth knows,” the Griffin said, and then added, turning to face his inquisitor, “Can we please dispense with this repartee and get to business?”
“Certainly,” the man said. “I’m just… so very curious about you. It seems to me that you are just the type of individual the Pallium exists to police, and yet I can find nothing about you in any of our extensive tomes which cover virtually every supernatural occurrence in the history of the planet. Plenty on griffins, nada on the Griffin.”

“You don’t have an inkling of history: to you this world is a few thousand years old. When it comes to history, your geologists would make better historians.

“And if you did know my true name, and found what was written about me, you would have run for the hills long ago and never dared to step foot in my presence again.”

“Well. Good thing for you that I don’t know your name, eh?”

Griffin leaned forward and with careful annunciation, taking care to show his teeth, mouthed, “Precisely,” turning away from the man at the same moment. Inside, Hillock was in awe of the absolute idiocy of this man, but he was thankful for it at the same time so he said nothing. He was also aware that the informant was trying to scan him, as he did every time they’d ever met. He tut-tutted at the futility of the exercise. Not a human alive could crack his shield. Not one.

“The Pallium is mobilizing,” the man said.

“Why?” Hillock asked.

“Apparently they’ve detected a disruption in the Wash. They’re not quite clear what it is exactly.”

The black man breathed in deeply, half closing his eyes as he did. “Where?”

The man held out his hand. “I should think this information would be worth quite a bit more than my usual fee, Mr. Griffin.”

Griffin winced slightly and his shoulders and head sagged just a bit, but then his chest puffed up and he turned to face the man that had approached him. He considered the man’s hand for a moment, extended as if to receive payment immediately, and said, “The Pallium might be interested to hear of your activities here, Mr. Helling. Perhaps I should drop them a line—a Pallium operative spilling secrets for money? Tsk, tsk, dear sir.”

“Nevertheless, I believe I am entitled to double my usual fee at the very least.”

Griffin shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned slightly away from Chad Helling. “Meet me tonight at the Wolf and the Stag. We’ll discuss further payment there.” He took a step as if to walk away, but turned back and added, “I’ll expect a detailed report, Helling. If this is going to cost me extra it had better be well worth it.”

Helling smiled smugly, straightened his cuffs, strolled out onto the street and disappeared around the corner. Griffin walked in the opposite direction, deeper into the narrowing alley. He observed the black ironwood door that bore the symbol “Ж” and marked the entrance to the Prague motherhouse of the secret society called the Order of Pallium, Pallium being the Latin word for cloak. The door was well shielded with telepathic barriers of all sorts, as well as a few traps that, if triggered, were designed to annihilate the triggerer down to the last molecule. Griffin was capable of circumventing those deadfalls and gaining access to the hallowed inner sanctum of the Pallium if he chose, but there were other dangers for him to beware of, so he used a few well-placed informants to gather information for him and kept his own mind’s resources dedicated to shielding himself from detection.

Detection, for Hillock, was always a danger. What a disaster it would be if the Pallium performed one of their almost ritualistic global scans and his presence here was exposed. Worse: if some bumbling idiot Pallium operative (Helling) was scanned while simply thinking his name. The Pallium may have their share of fools, but they were still dangerous to Hillock—they were the ones that considered themselves the policemen of beings such as Hillock; that is, anti-humans. And if they knew of his existence, they would hound him to the ends of the Earth and snuff him out like a candle. Humanity, the damnable state in which Hillock was cursed to exist, was a very fragile state to be in.

***

At the Wolf and the Stag that night, on a gravel road well beyond the city’s lights, Helling stepped in like he owned the place, wearing a tailored black suit with a black rain coat. There was a big, stone-hearthed fireplace with a crackling fire inside and a black pot suspended above the flames. The tables and bar were composed of thick wood, very rustic, adorned with brass rivets the size of a baby’s fist. Cigarette and wood smoke fogged the air, and Helling scanned the dimness for the Griffin, smiling broadly when he saw him. He walked straight over, removing his coat as he approached. The Griffin’s back was to the rear wall of the bar, in the darkest corner he could find. Helling sat down across from him, tossing his coat over the chair back. Griffin’s hat was sitting on the table beside his left arm. His head was bald on top, with a small patch of hair at the top of his forehead that swirled upward in a little curly-que. The rest of his hair was long and dark gray and straight, cascading down to his shoulders and down his back.

“Sorry I’m late, Griffin. Pressing matters, you know.”

The Griffin sat still as a statue, staring into Helling’s eyes.

“You have something for me, sir?” Helling asked.

The Griffin spread his crossed arms, revealing a small paper sack he’d concealed with his arms. Helling couldn’t seem to decide whether to reach for it or not, and the Griffin made no move to offer it.

“I think you’ll like what I’ve got to offer,” Helling said.

“I’d better,” came the reply.

Helling glanced around and threw up a finger at the bartender. He looked to see if the Griffin was drinking but he wasn’t, so he left the bartender to bring him a single pint. “I suppose you won’t give me that until I’ve given you a taste for what I’ve got.”

The Griffin’s eyes fell on the brown paper bag for a second and then came back to meet Helling’s, but he remained silent.
“Alright, then, we’ll play your game for now,” Helling said.

It took all of the Griffin’s considerable power to keep from laughing aloud. This fool. This buffoon! To think there was any other game to play!

The waitress set the mug down on the table and didn’t even draw a glance from Helling, who smiled like a weasel might when in the chicken’s coop. He drew some odd coins from his pocket and slapped them on the table beside the mug. She took them and walked away. Helling’s glare was steady.

Helling looked to make sure the waitress was beyond earshot and then leaned forward slightly. “The Wash is active lately,” he said. “There seems to be a disturbance within its flux. The Order has a team on standby to investigate, but they’re waiting for the time being; I suppose Colonel James is nervous. They’ve never seen anything quite like this before and they want all their ducks in a row before the make their move.” He took a drink from his pint, wiped the foam from his lip with a napkin, and said, “There’s more, but first, I’m still so very interested in what you have in your little baggy there. Or should I say my baggy?”

“Helling, if you want your pay, earn it.”

“Very well,” Chad said, leaning back in his chair. “They believe the disturbance was caused by the birth of an individual from the Wash itself, as if some bloke just popped into existence right out of the ground.”

Griffin drew back as if he’d been struck. He couldn’t hide the shock on his face.

“I presume, by your reaction, that this is the news you were seeking. Excuse me if I help myself to my compensation,” he said, and reached out to take the paper sack, but the Griffin’s hand flashed out and grabbed Helling’s thumb. Griffin twisted the thumb painfully and snatched Helling halfway across the table, so he could whisper directly into his ear.

“Who is he? I know they know. Tell me.”

“They didn’t say,” Helling said through clenched teeth. “Now kindly release me.” He was surprised at the strength of the Griffin’s grip.

“Damn you!” Griffin said, pulling him closer still.

Helling felt a sharp point at his belly and his anger quickly evaporated into fear. The Griffin’s face was a black snarling mask of rage. “Where?” he asked. “Where did this happen?”

“Find out for yourself,” Helling said, but shut his mouth when he felt the dagger pierce his skin. He whimpered. He felt sweat bead up on his forehead and he tasted blood in his mouth.

“You know I can’t,” the Griffin said, “It’s too dangerous for me. That’s why I have lackeys like you, chum. Now tell me, where did this happen? Or so help me I’ll gut you like the Christmas pig.” He wrenched Helling’s thumb so tightly that Helling cried out. Some interest began to show from the other patrons in the bar, and the Griffin noticed the bartender’s eye turn to see what was going on as well.

“America. Florida,” Helling groaned, and then he felt the blade slide deeply into his flesh and all he could do was whimper. Griffin grimaced and hoisted the knife upward, and everyone in the bar heard the thumping splat as his innards spilled out onto the table in a wet gush. As a safe measure, the Griffin pulled out the knife and slashed open Helling’s carotid, sending a jet of blood ten feet across the floor to the foot of the bar. Helling’s color went faster than his money, and his life’s breath ran out in a fatal gasp.

The griffin whispered to his murdered informant, who still stared up with a shocked, appalled expression, “Who needs telepathy when there are lackeys like you, boy? Besides,” he said, pushing Helling’s body to the floor and then leaning low over his face. “I can still do magic!” With that, he patted his hat smartly onto his head and spun and ran directly through the wall.

After he was gone the patrons of the bar would later testify to one another and to the authorities that the black man (abnormally black, some would say) had simply disappeared into thin air. There was no hole in the wall, no secret doorway or window. There was only a wall.

***

The following day Vaclav Hradil, the proprietor and bartender of the Wolf and the Stag, arrived to open bar at two in the afternoon. It was late for him to be opening, but it had been a hell of a night. It had been daylight when he’d finally locked the bar and walked across the field to his small house. The bar would normally have closed at midnight, but it’s a rare thing to have a murder (especially one so mysterious) occur in the bar, so he stayed around and answered all the questions the authorities could think to ask. At five thirty he toed the rocky path through the grass as he’d done for twenty five years without ever having had to do more than separate a couple of drunken patrons when they got to brawling—until that night. His brain was foggy when he finally got home, and he went straight to sleep without even taking off his clothes.

A murder! He could scarcely believe it. Sure, he’d heard stories; the Wolf and the Stag had been in the same spot for five hundred years, in the same stone-walled structure, there’d been hundreds of people killed here, in hundreds of different ways. But he’d never heard of a single story where the killer had vanished. Vampires had drained the blood of a dozen patrons, werewolves had devoured at least five, on any day of the week you could hear a tale of at least three spontaneous combustions that’d occurred in its history, and there was even word that some simple fool had been sexed to death by a succubus. But there’d never been a stabbing in which the stabber (an uncommonly black, almost demonic stabber) had simply disappeared into thin air. This, to Vaclav, was the number one murder in the history of the bar, and he couldn’t disguise his pride, even from himself.

He keyed the lock and opened the door, walked inside, and closed the door behind him.

“Hello!” came an excited voice that startled Vaclav. He turned to see a man sitting at one of the tables. He thought back for a second and distinctly remembered having to unlock the door just now, and he briefly became nervous that this was a police officer that he’d accidentally locked in the bar overnight.

“I’m no officer, Vaclav,” the man said, speaking Czech despite his poor accent, smiling like he’d just been sexed to death by a succubus.

Vaclav’s mind was rushing with thoughts; he’d never opened the bar to find someone there already, and he’d never had his mind read, either—at least, of which he was aware. Of course, it was possible that this fellow just assumed that he would be thought of as an officer and thought he might disqualify the notion right up front. Vaclav considered running back out of the bar and going back to his house where he kept his rifle; here he had only a cricket bat, and that probably would be insufficient against those type people that disappear into thin air and read minds and materialize inside of locked bars before the owner arrives. Also: the bat was behind the bar which happened to be behind the strange visitor. Furthermore: this man’s smile was extremely unsettling. It was the type of smile Vaclav imagined a lion might smile while deciding whether he wanted to eat again or not. The smile said, “Come closer, I won’t bite, and I certainly won’t reach out and tear your arm off and swallow it whole if you come too near…”

“Relax, Vaclav,” said the stranger. “I’m only here to ask you some questions. The man who was murdered last night was a colleague of mine. I’m concerned. That is all.”

“Ah,” said Vaclav, wanting his bat in his hands. “Then you should let me get a drink for you.” Vaclav said this, but made no move toward the bar. He wanted to be certain the stranger knew exactly what he was going to do, and approve, before he did it.

“Splendid idea! Do you speak English?”

“Yes,” Vaclav said in English, walking toward the bar very slowly.

“Good! My Czech is horrible. Now, would you mind telling me what you know of what happened last night?”

As he walked to his station behind the bar, Vaclav was thinking that this man looked a lot like John Cleese, the English actor that was in A Fish Called Wanda, a delightful program. He looked more like John Cleese than he did a lion, for certain, but that smile was still very unsettling. It was a smile that was smiled by a man who was very unaccustomed to smiling. He began pouring a pint, eyeing his bat, trying to figure out if this man was John Cleese or a lion. Why would a lion act like John Cleese (the brilliant actor) for no reason in the middle of the afternoon unless he was looking for a quick meal? Vaclav almost took the bat in his hand, but he was too scared. He didn’t want to become the next great murder in the history of the Wolf and the Stag.

As Vaclav watched, however, the man’s expression dropped; he went from John Cleese to a much more lion-like Clint Eastwood in a matter of only a moment or two, and Vaclav knew Clint Eastwood was not a happy John Cleese sort of fellow. It was time to grab the bat.

Clint Eastwood stood up. “Be a good chap and put the bat down, Vaclav. You’ll only get yourself hurt, and I only want to ask you a few questions about last night. No harm will befall you if you’ll cooperate.” His face was grim, but it was better in its own way because Vaclav thought this expression was genuine. He preferred the man showing his true face to showing the lion’s face.

If, the man had said. “If you’ll cooperate.” This meant bad things to Vaclav. If this lion’s idea of cooperation meant something different from Vaclav’s, then bad things were sure to come.

John Cleese shook his head and put his hands out like he was approaching a timid animal. Like a cow. He reached for his coat pocket and drew out a card and laid it on the bar, approaching very slowly.

Vaclav looked at the card, which read:

Martin Caster
Paranormal Investigator
Order of Pallium
Prague ● Jerusalem ● New Orleans ● Hong Kong

He gave the card back.

“You see, Vaclav? I am only here for information. The man that was killed here last night was a colleague of mine, and I would truly like to bring his murderer to justice. You understand that, don’t you?”

Vaclav’s eyes blinked very rapidly several times, and he had to shake his head to make it stop. He also felt something odd, like a feather tickling the corner of his mind, right at his right temple. He almost fell down.

“Vaclav,” said Martin, with a hand out as if he was going to grab the bartender, but he didn’t. “I’m not here to harm you. If you’ll just be calm for a moment…” He broke off and his eyes narrowed, his eyes began moving back and forth as if he was reading the words on a book page, and then

Vaclav snapped his eyes open and was alone in the bar.

He shook his head and squinted his eyes tightly. Then he began the business of opening the bar. It had been the oddest twenty four hours of his life.

***

Martin was traveling in the back seat of a black Mercedes sitting beside another, older, man.

“He didn’t know anything about the killer, then?”

“Nothing, Colonel,” Martin said.

Colonel James shook his head. “So what do we know? He was dressed like a Pilgrim or a Quaker or something. He had black skin; really black skin. Yellow eyes. And he can disappear into thin air. That about cover it?”

“Pretty much. The disappearing bit can be explained well enough: there’s a Wash portal right outside the wall of that bar, if he could extend it for a few seconds by some means, then he likely just passed through and into the Wash.”

“Who would know how to do that?” the Colonel asked.

“I don’t,” Martin replied.

They grew silent for a few minutes. “You know Chad was selling information,” the Colonel said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what information was being dealt?”

Martin shook his head. “For certain? No. He’s been digging up a lot of information about griffins for some reason. Beyond that though I don’t know.” He stretched his neck and pulled at his collar, loosening his tie slightly.

The Colonel nodded. “You can damn well bet that whoever it was he was dealing with was the one that killed him.”

Martin agreed.

“What about his signature? Was there really nothing?” the Colonel asked.

“Nothing I could detect,” Martin said. “The bartender showed me where they sat, where the murder occurred, but there was nothing of the murderer. I could clearly see Helling, the fool, but as for the other… He must have been masking himself.” And doing a damned good job of it, too, he thought.

“Yes, of course. But how long has this black man been here? To what purpose? This business shakes me up, Martin, I don’t mind telling you. There’s too much going on now.”

Martin nodded.

“A telepathic buffer. And maybe even a memory bomb set off right here in Prague! Unebelievable! This is some serious magic being tossed around, Martin… When was the last time a memory bomb was detonated?” the Colonel said.
Martin shrugged and held the posture for a few seconds. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Not in my lifetime. At least not by anyone outside the Pallium.”

“Right! And now magic, once again, as if…” the Colonel faded off, looking at the passing countryside through the window, shaking his head slightly.

“As if it’d never gone away,” Martin said, finishing the thought.

The Colonel nodded and then shook his head. He put his hand on Martin’s arm and said, “Martin, magic hasn’t been in use in any with any real accuracy for nearly a thousand years. Who in the world would know how to set off a memory bomb?”

“Someone who’s been around for a thousand years.”

“Anyone that old is under our watch. Every one of them.”

“Maybe one slipped by. Maybe—”

The Colonel cut him off, “—How? How could a single one escape the Pallium’s eye? We’ve been keeping an eye on this planet since Hector was a pup. Tell me, Martin, I beg.”

“If this is as powerful a being as we suspect it must be, and if it’s been focusing all its power on remaining hidden…” he shrugged. “It’s possible.”

They grew silent for several long minutes, each one staring out his respective window. Then the Colonel began again.
“We knew about the disturbance in the Wash for days before the entity was born; we began to mobilize almost immediately. I’ve had a team on standby for days now, chomping at the bit, as it were, to get going, but I’ve held them back so far. I had hopes of gaining a bit of insight as to what it was we were dealing with.” He shook his head. “But we can’t read it and no one knows why. All we’ve been able to detect so far is a human signature. A human being somehow is born out of the swamp in south Florida, and almost simultaneously a summons is sent from the Arctic Circle that encircles the globe. And now this. These are bad tidings, Martin.”

Martin nodded again. “The arctic north has been hopping with telekinetic energy for many years; perhaps this is the culmination of that energy.” He paused, and then glanced at the Colonel and posed another question. “We’ve all read the Explanation of the Wash. Do you think it’s possible that it’s true? Could it be a dragon that’s come through?”

“I shiver to think of it, but thought of it I have. The simple truth of it is that Dirkshire’s book is the only one in history we’ve been able to find that offers any speculation at all that dragons breathing Earth air will assume human form. And even if he was right in his conclusions, this entity was born in the Wash; shouldn’t he retain his dragon form until he exits the Wash?”

Martin shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Presuming, of course, that Dirkshire’s book is anything other than what we’ve labeled it as: mythica.”

“Of course. But what if it’s right? What if a dragon has found a way through?”

“Then we shall kill it and all others that follow it, presuming they don’t run the world over before we figure out how to.”

“Should we alert the government?”

“Let me worry about that,” the Colonel said.

Has the summons been answered yet?” Martin asked.

“Received but not answered. You know how it is; the receiver is probably one half idiot, the other half imbecile. Regardless, is it too much of a coincidence to be considered coincidence that the summons’s receiver is in south Florida as well?”

“Probably,” Martin said, and then added: “Who knows? Do you have a name?”

The Colonel, blessed with a near-encyclopedic mind, responded automatically. “The receiver’s name is Joseph Copeland. He’s young and basically irrelevant to society in general. Works as a lifeguard in Naples, Florida. No arrests, no record.”

There was a brief silence during which Martin mulled the potential uselessness of a marijuana-smoking, skirt-chasing, incompetent twit such as this Joseph Copeland must certainly represent. He rubbed his temples and exhaled.

After several long minutes of contemplation, the Colonel said, “You know it was this that Helling sold, don’t you?”

“The Florida situation,” Martin stated knowingly, nodding.

The Colonel nodded. “It would have to be. Nothing else major has happened in months. No, it’s my guess that whoever our killer was, he’ll be hotfooting it over to America the first chance he gets. He’s been masking himself and waiting for a Pallium operative to give him the information he’s been looking for and once he got it… poof!” He held his hands up as if illustrating an explosion.

“I concur, sir,” Martin said. “Hopefully when the team arrives we won’t have an actual griffin to deal with.” He’d never seen a griffin, although he’d heard stories. Vicious, brainless beasts, they were. And large.

The Colonel nodded, but his eyes revealed that there was more he wanted. “The team is on standby,” he said, “but now I think I would rather have an agent look into it. Any chance you’ll hop over and have a look around?”

Martin thought for a moment and then said, “You’ll arrange to have me set up in the New Orleans office for a while?”

“It will have to be Savannah. The New Orleans motherhouse is still reeking from the hurricane,” the Colonel said.

“Yes, I forgot.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue, and then said, “But I’ll agree. I want to get a look at this mishmash anyway. I’ll go to the receiver first, for however much good it can do. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him to heed the summons. We could probably get there before him but whoever sent it will likely only give whatever information they have to Mr. Copeland. So it’s vital he makes haste.”

“Should I go with him?” Martin asked. In his own mind, he thought that he must go with him; a task of this importance couldn’t possibly be left in the hands of an incompetent. It was inconceivable to him.

The Colonel’s chin drooped in thought, then he shook his head, “That’ll have to be a judgment call. If you feel you should then by all means go. Just make sure we’ve got all our bases covered.”

“Fine,” Martin said. He looked at his watch. “I should be able to interview him within twenty four hours.” Whatever good it can do.

“Ha ha! Very good. You’ll solve this puzzle if anyone can!”

“It’ll get me out of this suit, at any rate.”

“Nonsense, it’s the best you’ve looked in ages.”

Martin smirked and turned back to the window, wondering where this mysterious black “man” was.

written by Matt Mitchell