Island of Fog and Death: A sci-fi horror adventure Read online

  He sat back and grinned. "Now, perhaps slightly less controversially, or perhaps not: where did this tale take place? The answer is clear: North Wales. The tale mentions the valley of a river named Afon. Any Welsh speaker, and many others of us come to that, will have recognised that 'Afon' simply means 'river', which seems less than helpful. But perhaps not: the way language changes over the centuries means that is plausible that there was a progression from 'Afon' through 'Avon', 'Arvon' and 'Arven' to end up with 'Arwen'. And the Riven Arwen is just a few hundred yards behind me as I speak. If the 'Afon' of the story were indeed the present-day 'Arwen', then we would expect to find Belbo's iron castle on the river bank. And that is exactly what we've done. We found the iron castle, or rather, a first century hill-top fort built in the Gallic style, with evidence of iron in its walls - yes, an Iron Fort - right here, outside the modern hamlet of Arwensford, on the bank of the Arwen.

  "Oh - and 'Belbo'? Well, I strongly suspect that's a lightly mangled version of 'Barba'. If so, then the knights of the tale would be the numeri exploratorum, the Roman equivalent of the SAS, of reality."

  Maxwell leaned towards the camera once more. Looking serious, and just a little wide-eyed, he tucked his long hair behind both ears, and breathlessly said, "It all fits. This is marvellous; it's an independent corroboration of the story that my team and I have been digging out!"

  Maxwell shot an enthusiastic grin at the camera, winked, and gesture for Owain to stop filming.

  "But..." Tori began, then hesitated to go on.

  "Spit it out, Tori darling," urged Maxwell.

  "But there aren't any dragons. Why is this tale going on about a dragon? I don't get it."

  Maxwell grinned. "It's a MacGuffin. The story is about the noble Belbo and how, fortified by the Holy Spirit, he journeys to the West to overcome evil and save the people, thus justifying his identification as 'hero'. It doesn't matter what the adversary is, not really. What matters is that Belbo is presented with the chance to do something heroic. A Bard in the Dark Ages would use plot devices like monsters the way modern thriller writers use terrorists. It's just an excuse for the hero to be heroic."

  "So it's sort of a metaphor? The hero did something, and the bard isn't sure what it was, but must have been heroic so they just made up something fierce to get the idea across?"

  Amanda noticed that Owain and Gilda exchange eye-rolling glances behind Tori's back, and she was sure Gilda mouthed, "Three syllables, O M G!"

  "Spot on, Tori. Well done."

  "So what would it really have been?"

  "Probably raiders or slave traders from Ireland or the Isle of Man, I'd bet," suggested Owain. "Those tribes used to cross over to plunder western Britannia until the Romans set up treaties that made it more profitable to trade with the Empire."

  "Quite possibly, Owain," said Maxwell. "But what makes this story intriguing is the secrecy. In a way, we don't want to have a mundane explanation, at least not on TV. We need to leave 'em wanting more. We'll get some nice scholarly papers out of the answer, assuming we find it, but a TV audience will be more entertained if we pitch some wild ideas and then leave them thinking."

  "The answer will be where the story ends," Gilda said. "What was the place?"

  "Mynydd Draig," said Owain.

  "No, that was a battlefield," said Amanda. "It literally means, 'Mount Dragon'. Since there are lots of mountains and valleys in North Wales, it could be anywhere. No, the place to focus is Ynys Anghenfil. Work backwards from there, and I think Beardy's trail will lead right back here."

  "Ynys Anghenfil? Well, literally, that would be 'Monster Island'. Sounds a bit 'cromulent' to me," said Owain with a snort of laughter.

  "Monster Island's just a name," laughed Gilda. "It's actually a peninsula!" Owain and Gilda high-fived each other again, to Maxwell's apparent bemusement.

  Amanda ignored them and carried on. "There are relatively few islands. And the story gives us some clues. It's at the mouth of the 'swift river'. And when you look at a decent map..." She pointed to an Ordnance Survey map pinned to the wall. "What do we see? The Arwen, running roughly north-west to the sea, and at its mouth, 'Anifail Island'. "

  "If 'anifail' is supposed to be Welsh, that would literally be, 'animal island'," supplied Owain. "Cool! Sounds like we really do need to head for Monster Island!"

  "If we look underneath the church there, we should find some more clues," Gilda said.

  "If there's a church, which I doubt," said Tori. She was peering at the map. "It's just a dot on the map so it's probably too small to sustain a church." She looked round sceptically. "So maybe it's just a bard's flight of fancy."

  Amanda produced another piece of paper. "That nice Mr Broadleaf photocopied an old 1930's Ordnance Survey map of Arwensmouth and Anifail for me." She dropped it in the middle of the table, and placed her finger just beneath a tiny black '+' symbol.

  "A place of worship, if recall correctly," said Owain.

  "I rest my case," said Amanda, straight-faced. "I need to be in Bristol for a few days, but what say I come up to Anifail in a week's time? You can show me what's left of the dragon!"

  Chapter 11

  Arwensmouth and Anifail Island, North Wales, 26 May last year.

  Chen Yongjun stood on high ground behind the rocky shoreline, just outside the village of Arwensmouth, and carefully studied the island of Anifail through binoculars. The fresh breeze stirred his black hair, but otherwise it was a fine, sunny late spring day here on the mainland. In contrast, he could see that the far side of Anifail, where the ground rose to the island's highest point, was shrouded by a foggy haze. Sea birds squealed and wheeled in the sky above him, and dipped into the sea in front of him. There were none to be seen over Anifail.

  He lowered the binoculars, feeling satisfied. There really was something worth looking into over there. It was happy coincidence that he had been visiting his brother at the Embassy in London, and had chanced upon a small item in a newspaper. He smiled to himself. Fate had put the newspaper in his hands, and himself in a position to investigate without any interference from his superiors. He was here on his on time, and he intended to enjoy himself.

  He turned away and followed the footpath that led down to the village. Arwensmouth was a tiny collection of sturdy grey cottages surrounding a village green which boasted a flower shop, a general store, an inn, and three gift stores and an art gallery full of colourful trinkets designed to catch a tourist's eye. But as far as Chen could tell, there were no tourists.

  As he drew level with the Arwensmouth Inn, he noted its proprietor, Jim Dilby, unloading food from a delivery van. Dilby called out, "Mornin' Mr Chen. It's a fine day for a walk, no?"

  "It is, Mr Dilby," replied Chen. "A fine day indeed. I was contemplating crossing over to the island. Does the chain ferry run at this time? I tried to decipher the timetable, but I am ashamed to say that its logic defeated me."

  "Aha, now, it defeats a lot of us, Mr Chen," replied Dilby, wiping his bald head with a tea towel. "Thing is, it's what they call a reaction ferry. It's the water that moves it, see, so it needs the tide to be flowin' the same way as the river. Then skipper Bill just sets the rudder right, and the current just pushes it along. You carry on down to the ramp, and it should come over shortly. Dairy Bill should be comin' over with milk and cheeses from Willem's any minute."

  "That explains it," replied Chen with a smile. "I am pleased to learn it is not just me who is confused by its timing. Thank you, Mr Dilby."

  "I told you when you checked in, didn't I? Call me Jim."

  "Thank you very much," Chen said with a bow of his head. "I will do so, but you must call me John."

  "All right then, John," said Dilby. "Have a nice day over there."

  "I am sure I will, Jim."

  Chen continued past a few more grey cottages, until he reached a point where the road broadened into a plaza, with a ramp off to one side leading into the water. He stopped and ostentatiously took a picture of the confusing so
-called timetable, with its complicated instructions for calculating the time of the ferry relative to the phase of the moon, the state of the tide, the month, the day of the week … The only reasonable conclusion he could reach was that the timetable was bait for gullible tourists, because the final instruction was obviously a joke. It read, 'If the ferry is here, you may board. If the ferry is not here, then boarding is not recommended.' Well, the ferry was here, so he boarded.

  According to Chen's map, there were only two paved roads on Anifail. One, labelled 'The Circle', ran around the periphery of the island, while the other, 'Harbour Way', ran more or less straight across the middle from the harbour - no surprise there - to meet the Circle at a 'scenic picnic area' near the north cliffs. It looked like there were twenty or so cottages dotted around the Circle, fronting onto the sea shore, and half a dozen more in the island's interior, serviced by Harbour Way. He had asked Mr Dilby - no, Jim, he corrected himself - and learned that the interior cottages were four farms and two smallholdings. He decided that hiking straight up Harbour Way to the cliffs might reveal an interest in that zone, so he would stroll around the Circle taking lots of photographs as he went. It probably didn't matter if the locals realised he was only interested in the north shore, but it was only good tradecraft to approach his objective indirectly, and opportunities to practice tradecraft had been few and far between.

  The chain ferry set off with Chen as the sole passenger. While he had read about these ferries, he had never experienced travelling on one. The vessel was basically a flat platform, big enough to carry a single vehicle and a small number of foot passengers, mounted on three floats, and secured by chains to a point on the Arwensmouth side. The combined pressure of the river's current and the tidal flow made it swing out and across the channel, coming to rest after a few minutes on the Anifail side where Chen disembarked onto a ramp leading up to the road. He dropped some coins into an ostentatiously labelled 'tip box', thanked the crewman that he assumed was 'skipper Bill', and made his way to the road with a flourish of his camera.

  It took Chen the best part of an hour to amble half way round the Circle. He had made a point of admiring flower beds and taking pictures of some of the cottages, as well as stopping frequently, pretending to study the horizon through his binoculars. The road stayed close to the seashore, and steadily but gradually rose and curved with coastline until it arrived at the 'scenic picnic area' - a tiny car park adjacent to a grassy meadow with half a dozen wooden benches dotted about. He paused there, taking a seat at a bench with a view down the length of the island, all the way to the ferry and Arwensmouth.

  He was about to stand and move on, when movement caught his eye. Chen focussed the binoculars, and a goat sprang into view, a nanny with a sleek, mostly black, coat and white patches on the sides of its head. He reduced the magnification and observed a dozen of the animals, dispersed about a field. One of them seemed to be struggling to walk, with what looked like a pink, slimy tube dangling between its legs forcing it to limp and stumble. Chen frowned at that, and resolved to take a closer look on his way back down to the ferry. First things first: take a look at the cliffs.

  He stood and walked in the direction indicated by a weathered wooden sign that pointed northwards and read, 'Public footpath and cliff path'. He slowed his pace as the air grew increasingly misty, until he could see no more than a few metres ahead. He pondered the wisdom of continuing in such poor visibility, but resolved to go on. This was, after all, one of the phenomena that had caught his interest and brought him to Anifail. He noted that the air was still and silent, with neither sight nor sound of any sea birds, yet the ground all around was spotted with their droppings. He smiled and nodded to himself in satisfaction.

  A wooden fence ran along the side of the path, warning walkers of their proximity to the cliff edge. Chen quickly climbed over and walked along the narrow strip beyond, keeping one hand close to the fence and a careful watch on where he was putting his feet. After a few minutes of cautious progress, he reached a length of yellow and black plastic ribbon. It ran across the path and was twined along the fence by the path. The black was lettering: 'DANGER'. This marked the area where the cliff face had sheared away a couple of weeks earlier.

  Chen shed his backpack and extracted a climbing rope. He secured one end to the fence, the other to his waist. Carefully he moved to the cliff edge, lying flat to spread his weight, and peered over. He could see a patch of unweathered rock, ten metres or so over to his right and down. He eased his way back to the fence, moved across to the right, and re-secured the rope. This time, when he peered over, he smiled in contentment at seeing that he was now directly above the unweathered area. The mist appeared densest here. He manoeuvred himself round and descended into the mist.

  The cliff face was sloping, but nowhere near vertical, making it an easy climb down. Chen worked his way across the exposed rock, studying it carefully as he went. It took only a few minutes to find what he had more than half expected - an anomaly. It took the form of a corroded metal plate.

  The plate was behind the rock, and only partly exposed. It must have been fixed in placed from the other side, meaning, he concluded, that there was a void behind the cliff face. He began pulling away loose rocks and stones, exposing more of the rusted metal. He stopped when one of the rocks refused to move, and leant closer to see it better. Strange, he thought. It appeared to be cemented in place. Shuffling to his left, he worked at removing more of the debris until he found more rocks apparently cemented into the cliff face. Then he smiled, as he realised that behind the rocks must be a cave entrance, covered over with an iron plate, and disguised by a man-made wall. With some hard work, it should be possible to chip away the rocks, fully expose the plate, and remove it to gain access to the void beyond. He was tempted - very, very tempted. But he decided to take it cautiously.

  Chen turned his attention back to the iron plate. From this angle he could see markings on it. He started wiping at the surface, and grew certain that there was some kind of inscription on it. The rough and rusty surface would tear his hands to pieces, so he slipped off the rope so he could remove his coat, and used that as an improvised cleaning cloth. Some vigorous rubbing of the weathered surface allowed him to discern lettering in two different alphabets: one inscription was clearly visible in western European lettering, probably Latin; beneath it were scratched a series of symbols composed from lines and sharp angles that Chen recognised as runes. He knew neither Latin nor whatever the language of the runes might be.

  He pondered the wisdom of continuing to clear the rock face to uncover the cave, or whether it was time to call in the British. Reluctantly, he decided it would be difficult to defend any course other than the latter. Seeing an inscription but proceeding without knowing what it said would be judged to be just too risky, and he was sure the Brits would make a fuss about his interference in their jurisdiction anyway. He fished in his shirt pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He found the contact number he needed, and dialled. It rang only once, and was answered by a bored-sounding male voice.

  "Yeah? What is it?"

  Chen smiled, because he knew the unwelcoming, indifferent tone was a deliberate attempt to make this sound very, very unofficial.

  "Code word buckthorn," said Chen, firmly. "Status green."

  The voice on the other end suddenly sounded more professional. "Identity?"

  "Uniform, November, Tango, India, Echo, zero, zero, niner, six."

  "Thank you. Please stand by for a call-back," said the operator.

  The line went dead.

  Then Chen heard a noise.

  It was the slightest of sounds, little more than a scrape, and it came from his right. He shuffled towards it. It came again. Curiosity drove him to move a little further to his right. This time when he heard the odd sound, he also saw a rock give a tiny tremor and slip a fraction backwards, tighter to the rock wall. He slipped a finger behind the rock and tugged gently. The rock moved slightly, and a puff of mist c
ame out from behind it. Then it resisted, and then it snapped back into place.

  Chen took a tighter grip on the rock and yanked sharply. It popped out and fell away down the cliff, revealing a black hole behind it. He leant closer to see into the hole, and jerked his head back again with a little cry of surprise - he thought he had glimpsed a movement. He took a deep breath, and then chuckled to himself at his vivid imagination. He had a flashlight, but it was up on the clifftop. He debated going back up for it, but only for a moment. He chided himself for his thoughtlessness in leaving it behind, and leant back in to peer into the hole.

  This time, he was sure something moved: he dimly perceived a serpentine coiling motion inside the hole. He tried to remember whether there were any venomous snakes in this region, or whether the climate was too cold. He vaguely recalled something about Britain having no snakes. Or was that some other country? He poked a finger in to see if he could reach whatever was moving. Suddenly, pain flared in his finger and across his hand, and with a yell he pulled his finger back. Something resisted, but he tugged harder until - with a fresh stab of pain - his finger came free.

  Chen's eyes went wide. His fingertip was missing. With a shout of anger he started ripping at the rocks, loosening and pulling them free, exposing a gap at the edge of the metal plate to see what was hiding behind. Suddenly, something long and oily black lashed out and whacked him the face, tearing away chunks of flesh across his cheekbones and nose, missing his eyes by a fraction of a centimetre. He pulled backwards with a cry of pain. The thing darted out again, aiming for his eyes, and he tried to move out of the way. It was only then that he realised that he had undone the rope at his waist - and forgotten to re-tie it. He swayed backwards, tried to recover, felt one foot slip off the cliff, and with a scream of horror felt himself falling.