"Fossils" by Laura Peregrin

Fossils

      The bus lurched to a halt, flinging me forward out of my seat and my doze. I peered out of the dirt streaked window, saw nothing like civilisation in the darkness outside and settled back into my seat to await my stop. As the last of my fellow passengers shuffled out of the door, the driver glared over his shoulder at me.

      'You as well,' he grunted. I looked perplexed. 'Last stop,' he offered by way of an explanation.

      'Last stop ..?' I repeated, the realalisation that I had missed my stop perlocating through my brain as icily as the rainwater would soon be percolating through my jacket. 'Is there another bus going back? I think I've missed my stop, you see ..' I babbled, aware that my voice sounded too smooth, too accentless.

      'No. Last bus for tonight,' the driver answered. I thought he seemed to derive a grim pleasure from imparting this news.

      'Well, can't you take me back? - I'll pay extra. I have to get back to Crail, I can't stay here - where is here, anyway?' Panic was beginning to suffuse my voice and stance. The rain was being driven in all directions by the wind, and the bus seemed to represent the one haven of realtive warmth and calm.

      'Against regulations,' the driver replied. Looking at his dour face, I was fairly certain that this was as near to enjoyment as he had got for quite some time. He did not seem inclined to offer any more information or help, so I pulled my jacket tighter around me and stepped out into the storm.

      The 'Last stop' turned out to be a village of sorts. An insidous odour of rotten seaweed, salt and fish suggested that it was situated next to the coast. A battered sign declared it to be called St Monance. I had never heard of such a place, and had no idea how far away it was from Crail. I had only the most vague idea of where Crail was, having been given a rudimentary hand drawn map and a blurred photo to allow me to find my way to my uncle's house where I was supposed to be spending a relaxing break away from the city. The map did have a phone number written in one corner, so I resolved to find a phone box and attempt to contact my uncle, who would hopefully send a car to collect me.

      I was thoroughly soaked by the time I found the village's one telephone box. I had already explored most of the place by then, such as there was of it - a collection of tall sandstone houses, many derelict, sitting uneasily alongside the obligatory concrete council estate, a forbidding and grimy church, a couple of tiny shops and a single hotel, all closed, maybe for the night, maybe longer. The village was built on a slope so that all roads lead insistently down to the small harbour where a few fishing boats were still tethered to the sandstone walls. The wind and the rain were coming directly off the open sea beyond the harbour, and were attacking the village as if trying to reclaim it. I huddled inside the phone box, grateful for what little shelter its graffiti'd perspex sides offered. That was the only aid it offered, however. The receiver dangled forlornly on the end of its cord, and when I picked it up, a flat silence told that it was unoperational. Cigarette butts were jammed into the coin slot. Reluctantly I left the phone box with half-formed plans to force entry to one of the derelict houses and spend the night there until the first morning bus arrived to take me to Crail.

      It occured to me to ask one of the locals where I might find another phone box or a B&B that would be open as it was only 10pm - the storm seemed to have brought the darkness on early.  However, the weather seemed to have driven most of them inside. The few I did see, scurrying quickly to somewhere else with heads bowed, appeared oblivious to my presence. Despite my need for help, I felt a flood of instinctive relief every time one of these sportswear clad figures shambled past me without acknowledging me. Something about the blockish dissymetry of their faces, their bulging, glassy eyes, the way the sodden man-made fabric of their clothes clung to their bodies like a shiny, wrinkled skin, made me glad to avoid them. On the one occasion one of them did notice me, he shot me such a look of stupid malevolence that I hurried in the opposite direction before he could get his wits together to chase me. It occured to me that this place must rarely receive visitors, and that I looked painfully out of place with my long hair - so pale as to be almost white - and extremely unsporty , un- branded clothes.

      After wandering once more around the increasingly deserted streets, I stumbled upon a little road I had failed to notice before. I followed it, not having anything better to do, and it led me back up the hill, away from the habour. A faded and corroded tourist information sign pointed the way to 'the old kirk'. This looked hopeful for shelter, or at least more hopeful than any of my previous ideas. I had hesitantly tried the boarded up windows of a couple of the derelicts, but noises from within suggested that perhaps I wasn't the first person to have thought of them for shelter, and I had no desire to challenge any squatters who had already taken up residence. Therefore an old church, that might have either an unlocked door or a suitable crypt or mausoleum offered better prospects for shelter. I hurried in the direction pointed out by the sign, with the rain pelting down as if it bore a personal grudge and the wind howling some kind of threat or triumph all around me.

      The path soon lead back down the hill again in a series of steps made slick by the incessant deluge. I slipped several times but eventually I came to the bottom of the hill and could finally see the old kirk. It was seperated from me by a swollen river that raced out to the violent sea. A simple concrete bridge spanned the river, leading to set of worn sandstone steps. These made their stately way up the side of an outcrop of weathered stone into the churchyard which was perched on top. I almost ran across the bridge, and I stumbled in my haste to ascend the steps. I had not realised I was so desperate to reach the church and its possibilities of shelter.

      Once in the churchyard, the storm seemed to abate slightly. I caught my breath, and took my first look around. The church itself sat on the very top of the outcrop, surveying the surrounding land and sea in a way more appropriate to a castle than a church. A crowd of lichen-coated, heavily eroded gravestones surrounded it, many of them leaning at strange angles or lying flat on the mossy grass, half grown over. All this was given only a cursory glance, however, as I had spotted the one thing I craved and needed - the doors of the church stood ajar.

      I slipped easily between the heavy, studded wooden doors and into the haven of silent, musty serenity.  I could dimly hear the storm still raging outside, but in here it was powerless. I walked slowly down the single aisle - solemnity seemed to settle naturally onto me here, like the dust which covered everything. Looking upwards, I noticed a delicate, detailed model of a fishing boat suspended from the high ceiling. Its style was outdated, but the paint on it was fresh and it seemed to be free of dust. Boats and sea creatures also featured prominently in the antique stained glass windows, and in the carvings on the font and other sacred items. At first this did not strike me as being unusual - after all, this was clearly a fishing village - but the more I looked at them, the more the designs seemed out of place in a Christian church. I myself am in no way a practising Christian, having fallen out with the church and all other organised religion as soon as I began to realise the terrible implications of such things, but I had been sent to Sunday school along with my brothers until I was old enough to object, and I knew what churches were supposed to contain. Nowhere in these images was there a single representation of Jesus Christ or any other of the standard biblical personalities or scenes. Some of the carvings reminded me more of pictures of Minoan vases which I had seen whilst at university. The church was clearly still in use, though. Piles of hymn books were neatly stacked on two tables near the entrance. Closer inspection revealed these to be written in Latin, however, and lacking the usual simple golden cross adorning the front. In its place was a pattern suggestive of tentacles  and seaweed.

      I dismissed these things as being worthy of future study but irrelevent at the current time. I paced round the church searching for somewhere to bed down for the night. The pews were too narrow to accomodate a sleeping body, as were the spaces between them, so I went to inspect the area round the altar. The altar itself seemed in some indefinable way to be older than the rest of the church. It was built of limestone, similar to the local sandstone of the rest of the building. It looked more weathered, less polished, as if a lump of stone had been dragged into place without receiving the attentions of any stonemason. It was also full of fossils. At first, I had taken these to be carvings, but a closer look revealed their true nature - hundreds of tiny feathered, flower-like crinoids preserved in the rock along with other, larger things which I could not identify. A rough slab in front of the altar was also full of these ancient creatures, and it seemed to belong with the crude altar as if hewn from the same rock at the same time. The slab was much larger than the neater surrounding stones, and it was weathered or worn in such a way as to form a shallow hollow in the centre. Unable to find a better sleeping spot, I lay down in this hollow, shadowed by the venerable altar, and allowed the muted storm noise to lull me into cold, uneasy sleep.

      'Dream"

      I awoke suddenly, my head still full of dreams and whispers. As I rose and stretched the stiffness out of my body, the dreams disapated like mist in sunlight, leaving only  echoes and fragments. Quickly, I realised what had woken me. The door was being pushed wide open, scraping against the stone. Unwilling to disturb the worship that was undoubtably being prepared, I looked around for another exit, or at least somewhere to hide until I could slip out unnoticed. The one other door appeared to be locked and barred, and I could not be sure which pews were likely to be in use. Panic began to build inside me, until I noticed a tapestry wallhanging that seemed to cover some sort of alcove. I scurried towards it, trusting to the noise of the door (which appeared to have stuck) to cover my footsteps. Pushing back the hanging, I discovered the alcove to be small but empty, and I squirmed into it, pulling the curtain back into place as the door finally gave way.

      Squashed uncomfortably into the alcove, with the back of the dusty but substantial tapestry brushing my nose, I could see very little. However, I could hear slow footsteps making their way around the church - presumably someone setting out the hymn books and generally preparing for the service. A tiny dread that this alcove was in fact of some vital purpose during the service began to trickle through my mind, but the amount of dust suggested that it was unused and I was, therefore, safe.

      As I sat there, trying to keep my legs alive and supress a sneeze, tendrils of the dreams reached out to grasp my mind, leaving me with vague but unpleasant images of underwater buildings, solemn swimming processions. I wondered also why I was afraid to face the parishioner, make my explanations, and leave.

      Soon, many more footsteps started to shuffle in, settling themselves in the pews, no doubt. A ripple of chatter ran through the church but hushed immediately as the small door I had seen was unlocked. A single pair of footsteps progressed with solemn, measured tread from there, coming to a halt somewhere near the altar. A voice called out in a language that I did not immediately recognise. A chorus of voices answered it every two lines. The cadence of the voices was rythymic and uniform, with no half hearted muttering or mumbling. Clearly this was a devoted congregation. As they continued their prayer - I assume they were praying, as no music accompanied them to suggest a hymn - I realised that the language was hauntingly familiar, though I still didn't understand it. Perhaps a derived or debased form of Latin? The intensity of the prayer mounted, the voices sounding ever more fervent, even frenzied. I became aware of an insidious scent, also, wafting towards my alcove. Incence? Scented candle smoke? The fragrance also evoked half-formed memories, though I never used such things myself. Certainly none of this reminded me of the church I had been coerced into attending by my school.

      The chanting rose to a crescendo, then silenced so suddenly I almost leapt out of my alcove to see what had happened. Instead of following with a hymn, or announcements or a collection plate, the congregation all got to their feet and began moving slowly and with  rythym that suggested ritual towards the front of the church and the altar beneath which I had spent the night. Stone scraped against stone, and the footsteps began to disappear, seeming as if they were descending stairs, going further down until I could no longer hear them. Eventually the last set of footsteps disappeared, and I sensed that I was now alone again in the main section of the church.

      I half fell, half leapt from my alcove. I was intensely curious to learn where this strange congregation had gone to, and almost equally intensely driven to leave this place immediately. Both the fear and the curiosity I attributed to the immense element of the weird and the unknown in this place, and both emotions were further heightened as my attention was drawn towards the centre of the church. In front of the alter, the fossil-ridden slab on which I had slept had been heaved aside, opening a pit that seemed to have its own gravity. Approaching cautiously, I noticed first that the air around the pit seemed to be being gently inhaled and exhaled, causing enough of a wind to gutter the still-burning candles set of the ends of the pews and around the altar. The breath brought with it the stench of high tide, mingled with the cool damp mustiness of underground caves.

      Soon I was close enough to lean over the edge and see the worn limestone steps that lead down beneath the church. They, too, were full of fossils, and seemed to have been cut from the rock itself. Aside from irregularily spaced wooden torches in crude brackets, nothing had been done to make this anything other than a rough, steep tunnel into the bedrock. Berating myself for my stupidity, I lowered myself carefully into the stairwell, preparing to follow the congregation of this St Monance church.

      The steps proved to be even steeper than they had looked from above, and became covered in a thin layer of greenish slime after I had gone done a metre or so. I proceeded extremely catiously, bracing myself against the walls as I did so. The rock was coarse, with lumps and fossils sticking out unexpectedly, and the top layer of skin was soon scraped from my hands. The breath like air currents became stronger, too, as I descended, and several times I was nearly blown off the steps. It would have been sensible to have given up, to have turned round, climbed back up and left that church forever.

      However, something compelled me to continue my descent - whether something within the chamber below, or something from deep within my own subconsciousness, I still do not know.

      After what seemed like an aeon of stumbling, slipping downwards I arrived, sweaty and slimed, with torn skin and clothing, on relatively flat ground. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness - for the torches provided only enough illumination to fill the place with shadows - I realised that I was in a vast, natural limestone cavern. A rough circle of flat grey light on the other side, along with an overwhelming stink of salt and decaying sea-things, suggested that it was open to the sea. For a while I stood awestruck, gazing at the varied strata rising above me, each containing within them many millenia of the world's prehistory.

      Sounds from the most shadowed corner brought my mind back to the present with a jolt, and I remmebered my original reason for investigating the tunnel and whatever it lead to. Assuming that the sounds had been made by the missing congregation - for this was the only place that the tunnel lead to, and I had not passed them going back - I crept towards the direction of the noise. The cave must have been below the high tide line, because my feet scrunched on shells and dried out seaweed thongs as I moved. The congregation seemed to be too absorbed by whatever they were doing to notice my less-than-silent approach. Soon I was close enough to make out voices raised in chant and song, paying homage or pleading with something in that darkest corner.

      The minister raised a torch, illuminating the largest complete fossil I have seen. Even the soft parts of the creature had been preserved, showing an amorphous, squid-like thing. It squatted within the rock, bloated and tentacled and revolting and incredible. I gazed at it in fascinated horror, like someone who cannot tear their eyes away from the scene of a grisly accident. The people before it seemed to be presenting it with offerings - watching them, I wondered how long they and their forefathers had been performing this ceremony. The church on the hill was very old, and often churches are built on holy sites that are older still . .

      My gaze was drawn towards the fossil's perfectly preserved eyes. Each one was easily as big as my head, and within them was such  a peculiar and grotesque look of petrified sentience that I was terrified and compelled at once. It seemed as if the thing were not fossilised at all, merely frozen, imprisoned in the rock. I knew, also, that little offerings would not be enough to release it, yet to leave something that awesome and ancient and vital stuck there in the rock forevermore seemed the ultimate blasphemy. This knowledge seemed to well up from some deep, aboriginol place within me, and I rushed forwards, teeth bared and feral.

      I burst into the congregation, shoving people out of my way. This disrupted their chanting, but I did not care. Reaching the front of the crowd, I leapt towards the thing, throwing myself onto it. I felt my bleeding hands run over it, and something like electricity, something like orgasm coursed through me. As the ecstasy of communion shuddered through me,  I was dimly aware of profane hands reaching for me, trying to drag me back. I slid into blissful, agonised unconscious . .

      I awoke on sodden sand, with the waves crashing around me. I think that the congregation must have thrown me out of the cave into the sea, expecting me to drown or be crushed on the rocks. The sea looks after her own, though. It is my belief, though I am not certain of this, that the congregation exist to guard the fossil, to see that it stays fossilised. For I know that it, and its like, could not co-exist with the human race. So they hauled me into the sea rather than allow me to endure communion with it, though there is little chance that one human alone could wake it. I will not be able to contact it there again - after I limped up the path to the cliff top, and back to the church, I found it boarded and stoutly locked. I have returned several times since, and each time have found my way barred. Nor have I been able to discover the cliff opening into the cave, either. No one I have spoken to about the church in St Monance has given me anything other than blank looks or vaguely threatening mumblings. I spent the night on the entrance slab to Its cave, though, and my raw, bleeding hands have touched Its petrified flesh. Something primal was awakened within me that night, and though it lies slumbering now, it will no more die than Itself will in Its prison of stone and spells. It terrifies me, and so many nights I awake sweating and screaming at the thought and knowledge of It. But It is ancient past and far future, It is the salt-sea from which all life once crawled and will crawl back. I am not the only one who knows of It, am not the only one who is tired of humanity's petty arrogances and pollutions. Across the tortured surface of the world we wait, wait until the stars are right, wait until It and Its Brethren are freed from their prisons to reclaim the world from the human usurpers . .