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Biggles fic: Ghosts of Sakhalin + part 2
Summer of Horror author reveals were yesterday, and my entry is the incredibly unsurprising:
Ghosts of Sakhalin (1400 wds, gen, slight canon divergence from Biggles Buries a Hatchet)
In which Onor is haunted literally as well as figuratively.
... but actually, there's more! So basically the story was at one point almost twice as long. I ended up feeling that, as a ghost story, it worked much better to cut it off at an earlier point. And I still think it's a stronger story that way.
However, the rest of it has a lot more resolution and comfort than the existing part, so I figured I'd post it here so it can be read and enjoyed. You should probably read "Ghosts of Sakhalin" first, as this picks up where it leaves off.
Ghosts of Sakhalin pt 2 - 1300 wds
The ghosts closed around Erich during their escape. Cold fingers raked his hair as he stumbled through the trees with the others. Thin arms reached out to try to trip him. The dead hated the living, but they also knew that the living would eventually come to them. For the living to escape their clutches, to leave the island and its evil behind entirely, was an insult they could not bear.
Erich tore his way free of the dead hands clutching at him and fought his way grimly onward. But when they reached for Fritz, hot fury filled him. He stepped in the way, and stumbled as the jagged nails that would have gouged Fritz instead raked his back through the prison rags.
"Uncle, are you all right?" Fritz asked, catching him.
"I will manage," Erich said, low.
He chose to take the rear; the ghosts could not keep up as well, and it was his best opportunity to keep them off the others. He had not fought in the prison. Looking back on it now, it seemed that he had taken the clawing and insults of the dead as part of his punishment here.
Now he turned his back on them, placed himself between the ghosts and Fritz, between the ghosts and Bigglesworth, between them and all of the men who had come here — somehow, inexplicable, impossible — to pull him out of Hell. He could feel blood running down his back. Perhaps when they got off this island, if they ever got off this island, he would find that it was from the cuts of the whip and not the claws of the dead.
"Bally awful place," Lissie said when they stopped for a brief rest. Bigglesworth lit a cigarette and they passed it around, each taking a quick drag, no time for more.
Abruptly Bigglesworth gasped and turned, his automatic leaping to his hand. "Something moved there," he said, peering between the trees where snow still swirled down.
The others were beginning to see them now. Erich's heart clenched, and the scratches on his back ached as if poisoned. He felt feverish, hot and cold by turns. "It may be the guards," he said as calmly as he could. "Let us continue on."
It was not until he stood at the bank, watching the others going off into the snow in Miskoff's skin boat two by two, that he became aware of a cold drag on his limbs. He looked down: nothing was visible, but it felt like iron shackles on his arms and legs, pinning him to the island.
When the boat came back, he said with all the strength he could muster, "Bigglesworth shall go next."
"It's your turn," Bigglesworth told him, and when that seemed to make no impression, ordered him into the boat.
He could not go, he could not explain. He knew only that he could not leave Bigglesworth standing on this shore, alone with the ghosts; he was not certain that he could leave, but he would not sail away and leave Bigglesworth standing there.
The warm hand closed on his arm again, the hazel eyes peered at his face, concerned. "Erich," Bigglesworth said. "Get in the boat."
He shook his head, feeling dazed and numb. But when Bigglesworth pulled at him, he had the same sense he'd had at the coal face, as if gravity had reoriented, as if those warm, strong fingers were now the pivot upon which his world turned. Nothing else could have made him move, but with Bigglesworth's hand on his arm, he hardly had a choice.
It felt like being tugged out of quicksand, a wrenching pain and a moment of utter cold; it felt as if his soul was being dragged out of his body, though he barely moved. And then suddenly he was free, he was falling, he spilled into the flexing, skin-covered bottom of the boat and crouched on hands and knees, shaking and sick.
Bigglesworth was speaking over his head to Hebblethwaite, who stood in the bow with a paddle. "Get him to the Otter quickly and come back. I think we're running out of time."
Erich's head spun. He was only dimly aware of the short boat journey, of hands helping him in, a wool blanket wrapped around him. Waves of dizziness washed over him; he felt weary, absolutely exhausted, as if he had run a hundred miles. Fighting his way back from the edge of collapse, he managed to say, "Bigglesworth —" For a soul-shattering moment, he thought they had escaped but Bigglesworth had been left behind, the island claiming its victory after all.
"What did he say?" a voice asked above his head.
"He's asking for Biggles. Figures the rest of us aren't good enough." That was Lacey, but the light touch to his shoulder, pushing him back down as he tried to get up, was neither unkind nor ungentle.
There was more movement, and Lissie crouched beside him, pressing a cup of tea into his chilled, shaking hands. "Biggles is on his way back, old boy, just off to get Miskoff for the last boat ride of this jolly adventure." Erich relaxed a little, and when Lissie urged him to drink, he sipped at it. "That's right, it'll do you a world of good."
He tasted nothing, though the tea felt sweet on his tongue. Waves of shivering convulsed him. Abruptly he looked up.
There were no ghosts here, he somehow sensed that, but he also felt something, a cold draft as if a wind had suddenly blown into the Otter's cabin. The camp stove flickered. And then the door was open, Bigglesworth was climbing in, wet from the storm with snow on his shoulders and his hair damp and dark with it. He turned back to speak to someone, and leaned out of the Otter to hand down a bundle of items wrapped in burlap. The door slammed. The night was shut out; the cabin was enclosed, warm, safe. There was no evil here.
Bigglesworth's men were around him now, hands touching, a quiet greeting among men who knew each other well enough that few words were needed. Bigglesworth had a brief word for each of them, accepting with a grateful smile a cup of tea that Lacey pressed into his hands. Erich was no part of this, sitting with his back against a bulkhead outside their small circle of warmth and greeting. But he felt part of it. It was as if he was watching them perform a ritual to banish the island's taint, and that circle of quiet protection extended to him as well.
Then Bigglesworth freed himself of the press of people, came to crouch beside Erich. He was shivering slightly himself, wet from the snow, and when he laid a hand lightly on Erich's shoulder it was chilled. But it was a human kind of chill, fingers cold from outdoors that would soon be warm again. And when he turned the warmth of his smile on Erich, it was the same smile as the one from those moonlit nights, crooked and familiar. He was asking a question, Erich didn't even know what, but apparently "Yes" was the right answer, because Bigglesworth nodded and rose, turning back to the others.
Erich leaned back against the side of the Otter, his shivering beginning to ease.
He found that he didn't care if any of this was real, if he had truly escaped or if this was something new the island had invented to torture him; wherever he was, whoever or whatever he was with, it was better than where he had been, and he had chosen to be here. When Bigglesworth turned to smile at him again, he cautiously felt himself smile back.
Ghosts of Sakhalin (1400 wds, gen, slight canon divergence from Biggles Buries a Hatchet)
In which Onor is haunted literally as well as figuratively.
... but actually, there's more! So basically the story was at one point almost twice as long. I ended up feeling that, as a ghost story, it worked much better to cut it off at an earlier point. And I still think it's a stronger story that way.
However, the rest of it has a lot more resolution and comfort than the existing part, so I figured I'd post it here so it can be read and enjoyed. You should probably read "Ghosts of Sakhalin" first, as this picks up where it leaves off.
Ghosts of Sakhalin pt 2 - 1300 wds
The ghosts closed around Erich during their escape. Cold fingers raked his hair as he stumbled through the trees with the others. Thin arms reached out to try to trip him. The dead hated the living, but they also knew that the living would eventually come to them. For the living to escape their clutches, to leave the island and its evil behind entirely, was an insult they could not bear.
Erich tore his way free of the dead hands clutching at him and fought his way grimly onward. But when they reached for Fritz, hot fury filled him. He stepped in the way, and stumbled as the jagged nails that would have gouged Fritz instead raked his back through the prison rags.
"Uncle, are you all right?" Fritz asked, catching him.
"I will manage," Erich said, low.
He chose to take the rear; the ghosts could not keep up as well, and it was his best opportunity to keep them off the others. He had not fought in the prison. Looking back on it now, it seemed that he had taken the clawing and insults of the dead as part of his punishment here.
Now he turned his back on them, placed himself between the ghosts and Fritz, between the ghosts and Bigglesworth, between them and all of the men who had come here — somehow, inexplicable, impossible — to pull him out of Hell. He could feel blood running down his back. Perhaps when they got off this island, if they ever got off this island, he would find that it was from the cuts of the whip and not the claws of the dead.
"Bally awful place," Lissie said when they stopped for a brief rest. Bigglesworth lit a cigarette and they passed it around, each taking a quick drag, no time for more.
Abruptly Bigglesworth gasped and turned, his automatic leaping to his hand. "Something moved there," he said, peering between the trees where snow still swirled down.
The others were beginning to see them now. Erich's heart clenched, and the scratches on his back ached as if poisoned. He felt feverish, hot and cold by turns. "It may be the guards," he said as calmly as he could. "Let us continue on."
It was not until he stood at the bank, watching the others going off into the snow in Miskoff's skin boat two by two, that he became aware of a cold drag on his limbs. He looked down: nothing was visible, but it felt like iron shackles on his arms and legs, pinning him to the island.
When the boat came back, he said with all the strength he could muster, "Bigglesworth shall go next."
"It's your turn," Bigglesworth told him, and when that seemed to make no impression, ordered him into the boat.
He could not go, he could not explain. He knew only that he could not leave Bigglesworth standing on this shore, alone with the ghosts; he was not certain that he could leave, but he would not sail away and leave Bigglesworth standing there.
The warm hand closed on his arm again, the hazel eyes peered at his face, concerned. "Erich," Bigglesworth said. "Get in the boat."
He shook his head, feeling dazed and numb. But when Bigglesworth pulled at him, he had the same sense he'd had at the coal face, as if gravity had reoriented, as if those warm, strong fingers were now the pivot upon which his world turned. Nothing else could have made him move, but with Bigglesworth's hand on his arm, he hardly had a choice.
It felt like being tugged out of quicksand, a wrenching pain and a moment of utter cold; it felt as if his soul was being dragged out of his body, though he barely moved. And then suddenly he was free, he was falling, he spilled into the flexing, skin-covered bottom of the boat and crouched on hands and knees, shaking and sick.
Bigglesworth was speaking over his head to Hebblethwaite, who stood in the bow with a paddle. "Get him to the Otter quickly and come back. I think we're running out of time."
Erich's head spun. He was only dimly aware of the short boat journey, of hands helping him in, a wool blanket wrapped around him. Waves of dizziness washed over him; he felt weary, absolutely exhausted, as if he had run a hundred miles. Fighting his way back from the edge of collapse, he managed to say, "Bigglesworth —" For a soul-shattering moment, he thought they had escaped but Bigglesworth had been left behind, the island claiming its victory after all.
"What did he say?" a voice asked above his head.
"He's asking for Biggles. Figures the rest of us aren't good enough." That was Lacey, but the light touch to his shoulder, pushing him back down as he tried to get up, was neither unkind nor ungentle.
There was more movement, and Lissie crouched beside him, pressing a cup of tea into his chilled, shaking hands. "Biggles is on his way back, old boy, just off to get Miskoff for the last boat ride of this jolly adventure." Erich relaxed a little, and when Lissie urged him to drink, he sipped at it. "That's right, it'll do you a world of good."
He tasted nothing, though the tea felt sweet on his tongue. Waves of shivering convulsed him. Abruptly he looked up.
There were no ghosts here, he somehow sensed that, but he also felt something, a cold draft as if a wind had suddenly blown into the Otter's cabin. The camp stove flickered. And then the door was open, Bigglesworth was climbing in, wet from the storm with snow on his shoulders and his hair damp and dark with it. He turned back to speak to someone, and leaned out of the Otter to hand down a bundle of items wrapped in burlap. The door slammed. The night was shut out; the cabin was enclosed, warm, safe. There was no evil here.
Bigglesworth's men were around him now, hands touching, a quiet greeting among men who knew each other well enough that few words were needed. Bigglesworth had a brief word for each of them, accepting with a grateful smile a cup of tea that Lacey pressed into his hands. Erich was no part of this, sitting with his back against a bulkhead outside their small circle of warmth and greeting. But he felt part of it. It was as if he was watching them perform a ritual to banish the island's taint, and that circle of quiet protection extended to him as well.
Then Bigglesworth freed himself of the press of people, came to crouch beside Erich. He was shivering slightly himself, wet from the snow, and when he laid a hand lightly on Erich's shoulder it was chilled. But it was a human kind of chill, fingers cold from outdoors that would soon be warm again. And when he turned the warmth of his smile on Erich, it was the same smile as the one from those moonlit nights, crooked and familiar. He was asking a question, Erich didn't even know what, but apparently "Yes" was the right answer, because Bigglesworth nodded and rose, turning back to the others.
Erich leaned back against the side of the Otter, his shivering beginning to ease.
He found that he didn't care if any of this was real, if he had truly escaped or if this was something new the island had invented to torture him; wherever he was, whoever or whatever he was with, it was better than where he had been, and he had chosen to be here. When Bigglesworth turned to smile at him again, he cautiously felt himself smile back.
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I would also happily read 100k of Erich trying to subtly protect the others from ghosts.
Oh NO, now I'm thinking about ghosts from Sakhalin following him home, and Erich having to protect the others because he's the only one who can properly see them and also has some experience at resisting the chilling aura of horror/despair and so forth. Hmmmmm.
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And yeah, that's such a great way to describe that part of the story; he's just so lost in his own head there, and so unused to being rescued. *cries in Erich*
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I love EvS protecting the others from the ghosts that only he can see/sense, and him suddenly coming back to himself when Biggles touches him - my HEART <333 and I am always here for any situation involving EvS being rescued and being utterly baffled by Biggles's team being nice and looking after him and treating him like he's one of them.
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I love EvS suddenly discovering himself being treated as a person worthy of rescue and acceptance, and having absolutely no idea how to deal with it. <3