Gorgon Read online

  Mary Ann Poll

  America’s Lady of Supernatural Thrillers

  GORGON

  An Alaska Iconoclast Thriller

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  [email protected]

  www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN 978-1-59433-419-1

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-420-7

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2013950639

  Copyright 2013 Mary Ann Poll

  —First Edition 2013—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America.

  Dedication

  To John. My best friend and most staunch

  supporter. I love you more than I can say.

  Acknowledgements

  I am grateful to have this opportunity to offer my thanks to those that have helped make Gorgon possible.

  For the third time, I thank my friends at Kyllonen’s RV Park in Anchor Point, Alaska. Specifically, thank you Susan and Chevonne for providing a sanctuary for this writer. Gorgon would have not been completed without it.

  Dr. Dwayne Poll—your opinion is the one I value most. Thank you for making the time to read an extremely rough draft and see the diamond in the coal. And, thank you for the ideas for the front cover. It worked!

  My copyeditor Marthy Johnson. I shiver to think what Gorgon would have been without your guidance and direction.

  Margaret Mulvehill—my great friend who rearranged her schedule and took care of our three cantankerous canines so I could get to Anchor Point and finish Gorgon.

  James Keri of the Alaska Native Language Center and Alan Boraas of the Kenai Peninsula College who are the editors of “A Dena’ina Legacy, K’TL’EGH’I SUKDU, The Collected Writings of Peter Kalifornsky. Without this complete collection, the rich heritage of Alaska would be missing from the Ingress.

  Wikipedia, that amazing online encyclopedia.

  The staff of the Eagle River branch of the Anchorage Municipal Library. Their knowledge made it possible to find the reference books I needed without spending my life in the library.

  Kayla Hunt—for sharing your insights and talent. You are truly a gem! (www.kaylahuntbooks.com)

  Carol Douthat—my talented photographer friend. Our talks over coffee broke the writer’s block. Not to mention added the levity I needed to press on with a smile.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Contents

  Prologue Unintentional Consequences

  Chapter 1 A Cry For Help

  Chapter 2 Of Snakes and Statues

  Chapter 3 A Necessary Alliance

  Chapter 4 Lost and Found

  Chapter 5 Gains and Losses

  Chapter 6 An Unexpected Alliance

  Chapter 7 Déjà Vu

  Chapter 8 Divide and Conquer

  Chapter 9 Where’s the Connection?

  Chapter 10 Two for the Price of One

  Chapter 11 The Key

  Chapter 12 Rebirth

  Chapter 13 An Unlikely Victim

  Chapter 14 Bloodsuckers and Boxes

  Chapter 15 Kumrandes and Corpses

  Chapter 16 Old Town

  Chapter 17 Gorgon Explained

  Chapter 18 Everyone Worships Something

  Chapter 19 True Colors

  Epilogue When the Cove Calls

  Prologue

  Unintentional Consequences

  Orange flames danced off chestnut-colored eyes and cast warm hues onto the weathered wood walls of the lodge. An aged man turned to three adolescents who sat cross-legged around the sand pit. “There are those who do not understand. It is said I will bring them knowledge. What is done with this knowledge will determine the fate of our land.”

  The oldest youth jerked his chin to the elder’s right. “Why does this stranger sit beside you at our ceremony?”

  The older man narrowed his eyes and bent forward. “Do you question me?”

  The child’s face paled, and he dropped his head. “I do not.”

  The leader leaned back. “This man, whose name is Solac, came to our land with the white explorers on the big ships. His boat was destroyed in the big waters. I do not know why, but he lives when he should have died. Since that time, Solac has visited our villages. He is known by all the Denali. I call him my friend.” Elder Shan’s face broke into a warm smile. “I not only call him friend. He is my brother.”

  “With respect, father of our village, why has your friend come to us now?”

  “He has a message you must hear. Solac came to our land looking for a way to protect his village. He used our land to hide something and told no one. Now the white men who seek our animals and money from their hides are coming here in great numbers. When Solac saw this, he knew the secret could be uncovered and it would destroy us—and them. He came to me for counsel.”

  Young eyes widened with fear. “Secrets are bad! This man should be put out of our village!”

  “You have learned our traditions. I am pleased. Sometimes, we do not share all of our knowledge—a wise man and a leader of a village must know when to remain silent and when to speak. It is a lie if we do not share the truth when asked or when it will cause great harm. Today, my friend will tell the truth. He is about to share a story that will affect those yet to be born. It is a tale that you are not to teach to anyone but the ones who come after you to guard our history. Now you know why I called you here and why I instructed you to be silent after you hear his words. Do you still agree?”

  The young man bobbed his head.

  “Solac came to me when his heart could no longer bear this heavy burden. What he has done affects all of our peoples—from the great waters of Tikahtnu to Denali.”

  The oldest boy, the one who acted as their leader, focused on the elder’s gentle brown eyes. “We do not understand.”

  “You will. You are here because you are the ones chosen by our village to keep our people’s history.”

  The young man straightened his back. “I will do my best.”

  Elder Shan smiled. “I know you will.” He looked at the ground and sighed. “In the days when those from the country where the sun sets crossed the sea to our land, in the days before the white man paid for our home, in the days before our land was known as cursed, there was peace here. It was a sanctuary which fed and protected our people.”

  “I understand.”

  The kind eyes flashed. “You have no understanding, but you will.”

  The youth looked at the crackling fire.

  “This place we call home continues to provide for us. But you know the trees and grass are no longer abundant in our land because something made the peaceful spirits leave. Our people could not find a reason. Without a cause, we could not find a way to bring the blessings back to our land. Now I know why we will never know peace again—one man changed this land.”

  Young eyes narrowed in a mixture of hate and fear. “How could one man hold so much power?”

  “Every man has the power to destroy—every man and every woman. What we do is like throwing a stone in Tikahtnu. It only creates a ripple to our eyes. The ripple causes the tiny fish to be tossed into another place in the Big River where it is no longer safe, and it is eaten.” The elder contemplated the yellow flames of the fire. He turned back to his eager audience.

  “The story is of a lost jar, a vessel of great envy but not because of its worth for trade or food. It is a jar which causes the spirit to hunger and crave to possess it. What
lives inside is so evil, all who freed it were slaughtered. This pot was both a prison and a fortress that could not be destroyed. Many tried and many perished.

  “As you know, young ones, I was born to show our people why the land is suffering. Now my work is finished in this world. Your life, from this day forward, is to remember our history until it is your time to pass from this land to the land we cannot see.”

  “You are not passing. You are not even sick!”

  The old man smiled. “I am passing. I have been told to make ready, my grandson.”

  The youth lowered his head and studied the ginger-colored dirt floor. “The spirits are wrong. You are not sick.”

  The old man’s eyes misted over. He reached for the boy’s hand. “It is not our decision, grandson, when we leave this earth. Our time is ordained by the Great One. My time is coming.”

  The youth nodded.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” Solac said. “My time is short.”

  Elder Shan nodded. “Yes. Please begin.”

  “I am from the land called Russia. I did not come here to explore, as those I traveled with did. I came to save my village.”

  “You saved your village and did not think? You ruined ours!” the youth spat at him.

  “I have. That is why I have come to your grandfather,” he nodded to the elder, “and to those he chose to hear my story. Maybe with this knowledge your land can be restored.”

  “You put the curse on us. You take it off!”

  The man lowered his head. “I tried. I cannot.”

  “Fierce One, let Solac tell his story. It is our way. Then we judge.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” The young man leaned forward, picked a rock out of the dirt, and carved lines in the packed earth.

  “I do not know when this evil was born—if evil is born. But I believe it existed before our world. I do not know why I became part of its story, but I remember the day I did.”

  “How are we to believe you?”

  “Why would I lie and risk ending my friendship with your people?”

  The young one met the stranger’s gaze. “What you say is good. I will listen.”

  “Then I begin.” Solac took a deep breath.

  It was midday and our marketplace was full. A ghost came up out of the well in the center of the town. Its limbs hung useless, the lower arms connected to the upper by strings of muscle and bone. Blood streamed from its nose, eyes, and the torn limbs. But this was not the most terrifying part. When it opened its blackened and bloody mouth, it bellowed like a moose calf taken by wolves. All who heard the wail froze in their places.

  The ghost said, ‘your town is to be destroyed. Listen and take heed so you may be spared. In life, I was a young man from a tiny place north of your precious town. I was known for my bravery and loyalty, and I did not hesitate when asked to do dangerous things to protect my people. When a being not of this world came to destroy my town, I was eager to take on the challenge and vanquish it. This adversary came in a beautiful and unique jar—a rare treasure. All who saw it craved to possess it. This thing trapped us in its beauty and annihilated my village, one man at a time. Only a few of us did not fall under the spell.’

  “A strong one. Much like you, my son of my son.” The warmth of pride in the old man’s voice brought tears to the youth’s eyes.

  The younger man dropped his head, slapped the tears way, and then straightened his back. “Please continue,” he said.

  The spirit spoke again. It said, ‘the people of my town gathered wood and took it to the edge of the ocean many miles away. They even brought chairs and tables from their homes so they could make a fire big enough to be seen from the village. When all was ready, I took the vessel to the ice-cold shores of the water, accompanied only by one other. He would witness the pot’s destruction. I lit the towering woodpile and waited for the fire to peak. I threw the golden object into the mighty flames.’

  “If the pot was destroyed why are we here?”

  Solac looked the young man in the eye. “I did not say he destroyed it. I said he threw it into the fire. Here is what this spirit said,”

  ‘The jar landed in the center of the bonfire. I made my way to the path that led to the village. Hands of red fire with fingers tinged in yellow and palms of blue raced from the bonfire and seized hold of me. It pulled me into the fire and devoured my flesh. The townsfolk did not know this because it swallowed up the witness, too.

  ‘When the fire burned out and the villagers could no longer see its smoke, the leaders came. The jar stood upright in the middle of the ashes, alabaster-white in the bright sunlight. There was no sign of me or the witness—not even a tooth. They took the vessel back to the village. The rage of being thrown in the fire caused the evil spirit to reveal its power. It opened its mouth and sounded a melody none could resist. Even those who had been held clean succumbed to its power. This thing now makes its way to your town. You have been warned!’

  “The ghost left and we never saw it again.”

  Elder Shan chose a thin piece of spruce from a pile of dry logs, yanked off a smaller limb, and then dropped the wood onto the fire. He drew a small circle on the floor in front of him and then a thin line and a larger circle. The swish of the dirt and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds in the small hut.

  “So what happened to the jar?” The lead youth asked.

  The stranger sighed. “Here is the tale as I know it.”

  ‘The people of my town were vigilant. Months turned into years. The destroyer did not come. Almost everyone decided the ghost was a demon and came to make us afraid.

  ‘One day a small urn was discovered by one of the townspeople when on a hunt. He brought it to the village council. None understood this pot to be the same one the spirit spoke of. We should have known something was wrong when the overseer, usually a generous man, laid sole claim to the urn.

  The stranger leaned toward the youth. “You see, this jar creates its own light; it is made of a magical stone. Jewels of red, the color of the berries we gather in the fall, are fused with the jar. I could not see where the stones started and the gems stopped. Sometimes the jewels became the deep blue color of Tikhatnu during a storm. Whoever looked upon it was filled with joy and wonder. The villagers believed it was the Great One and started bringing food and drink to the jar.” Solac’s eyes took on a far-away look.

  As happens to any who make a thing great, the villagers became terrified of losing their most valued possession. The overseer was not a strong warrior and was seen as weak. So a blood fight broke out when my people could not agree on who was strong enough to protect the urn. The fight left many injured and the overseer close to death. The near-death of the beloved leader stopped the battle.

  The people went to the jar and prayed for help. When they agreed that each member of the town would keep the vessel one night and the jar would journey this way throughout the town, the jar’s jewels glowed bright red, then deep blue. The people believed their god had answered.

  All was calm during the first rotation. But as it is with any evil thing, it waits until the time is right to strike. And it struck!

  At the second rotation, a healthy young man died. He was found a night later when the urn was to go to another man’s home. The arms and legs were stretched out of the joints and as white as the moon. It took a strong man to break his dead fingers and release the jar.

  “How could he hold it so and be dead?”

  “A question for the shaman,” Elder Shan said. He turned to his friend. “Continue.”

  The town searched the village for one who had been possessed of a demon. They accused an old man of the killing and locked him up. On the same night another died. The townspeople screamed for its leaders to kill the old man. They argued he was a warlock and cast a death-spell from his prison. To keep peace, the innocent one was beheaded.

  The slaughter did not stop. My town, which had been so peaceful, was cursed! None wanted to admit the common factor in the carna
ge was the vessel.

  Count Varlaam Alexander, who oversaw many villages in my homeland, was a righteous man of God. When he received news of the magical jar and the troubles which rained down on my village, he told the overseer to bring the vessel to him.

  Varlaam studied the jar and decided it was a lost icon of the early church. He seated it in a place of honor behind the altar in his chapel. Count Alexander looked on in astonishment when the thing first vibrated, then wobbled. The alabaster lid transformed into an indigo blue right before it catapulted from the urn. A smoky fog snaked skyward. The mist dissolved, revealing a beautiful woman, clothed only in a gauze robe.

  The count put his hands on the altar and shouted, ‘What are you?’

  The entity said nothing. It lunged at him. When it struck the altar it recoiled as if it had been burned. The beautiful features contorted in pain, and tears flowed from its eyes. ‘I am a soul trapped by evil. Please set me free.’

  The count stepped closer to the altar. ‘How?’

  The apparition offered him her hand. ‘Take it.’

  Varlaam kept his arms at his side.

  ‘Why are you hesitating? Is it not a man’s duty to save a soul in need of help? Come.’ The woman extended her hand again.

  ‘A human soul! If you are flesh, I will help. In the name of my Christ, I command you to show yourself!’

  The entity roared and lunged again. A mummified head snapped through the beautiful woman, then dissolved into an ominous fog.

  ‘You are not human.’

  ‘I was human. Until your God changed me to what you see.’

  ‘Then you are an abomination in His eyes—and mine.’

  ‘It no longer matters what your precious God thinks. He will not stop me from taking everyone in this village. They are mine.’

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘Oh, but they are. They have turned their backs on your God to worship me.’

  The count made the sign of the cross and said, ‘I have sinned, my God. I ignored these people because in weakness and fear for my own life I did not stand up for Your truth. Forgive me.’ He raised his head. ‘In the name of the Most High, tell me how I can rid my village of you.’