The Red Lanterns

One of the more notorious secret societies in China during the pre-Republican Era was the White Lotus Society, which played a shadowy role in supporting the “Boxers” – The Fists of Righteous Harmony – whose goals in driving out the foreigners from China aligned with their own ideals. The Siege of Peking saw a cataclysmic end to the influence of the Boxers, but tacit support of their cause remained a thorn in the Foreign Legations’ sides right up until 1923.

China’s secret societies have always been a fluid and nebulous phenomenon. In most instances, a particular society arises in opposition to the dynasty that currently occupies the throne and aims to restore the former incumbents. The White Lotus Society vehemently opposed Manchu rule of China (regarding them as foreigners, along with the Japanese and Europeans) and sought to restore the Ming Dynasty to the Dragon Throne, despite the fact that the Ming were – objectively - despotically cruel and corrupt. To this end, the Society lent their support to various other groups whose aims paralleled their own, the Taipings in the 1860s and notably the Boxers, but also another group based in Tientsin called the Red Lanterns.

The Red Lanterns were an all-female offshoot of the Righteous Fists of Harmony, who appeared as a support organisation formed to enable the Boxers greater opportunities for victory. The two groups had very similar rites and ceremonies, but the ‘Lanterns came to be seen as a more supernatural contingent, almost a society of witches.

Given the rigidity of a woman’s place in Chinese society, along with the regimentation which European Victorian society placed upon its women, the main power of the Red Lanterns was its flouting of convention. The women within its ranks, defied the Manchu rule by cutting their hair and refusing to bind their feet (not that Manchu women bound their feet, but the Manchu rulers liked to maintain a distinction between “their” women and those of the indigenous Han); the fact that they stood shoulder-to-shoulder with men in battle was in direct contravention to the Confucian edict that women should not be seen outside the family home unaccompanied by male relations, much less touch another man to whom they were unrelated whilst outside of the household. The Red Lanterns’ contravention of accepted norms filled their opponents – European, Japanese or otherwise – with a sense of dread and fear. If a woman was able to go this far in the name of a cause, who knew just how far they would go?

In this tactic, it’s possible to see traces of the Boxers’ main psychological advantage: they too, acted wildly in opposition of what was expected and, in doing so, startled their opponents into making errors on the battlefield. The T’ai-p’ing T’ao, the main form of Boxer magic, also utilised this contravention of normality to surprise and dupe their enemies. Weapons used against them seemed useless; their weapons seemed especially effective; their dead didn’t seem to stay that way. In fact the Chinese secret societies, in the face of the foreign powers’ technological advantages, turned to virtually the only edge that they could use – a psychological one.

The Red Lanterns were created by the White Lotus Society as an adjunct to the Righteous Fists of Harmony. The movement crystallised around a young widowed prostitute named Lin Hei’er, whose husband, Li Youquan, had been imprisoned and killed by the British for protesting against the opium trade. A White Lotus member and Boxer leader, Zhang Decheng, took her under his wing and initiated her into the Boxer tradition, re-naming her “Yellow Lotus” and establishing her as the leader of the newly-formed Red Lanterns. Their role was to be a secret guerrilla organisation to spread panic and to assist the main Boxer troops behind the lines, fighting the enemy from the shadows.

The Red Lanterns spied on enemy troop movements, intercepted messages and destroyed telegraph lines. They became infamous for setting fires to enemy equipment and outposts along with other acts of sabotage. The main body of the Red Lantern brigade fought alongside the Boxers, fighting and dying with the men on the battlefield. Yellow Lotus undertook to train any woman who came to her with the intention of fighting for the cause: only the rich, women with bound “lotus feet”, were turned away. Widows and old women formed the Black and the Blue Lantern brigades, who focused their efforts on sabotage and misdirection while the Sha Guo Zhao or “Cooking Pan Lanterns”, scoured the countryside scrounging food and equipment to aid the Boxers.

Yellow Lotus operated not only as teacher for the Red Lanterns, but also as judge and jury. Those guilty of dissension, or of breaking the traditions of the Boxer oaths, were dragged before her for sentencing and punishment. Occasionally, the accused was able to purchase their freedom with hefty amounts of cash, but this was fairly rare. Yellow Lotus became a tactical advisor and confidante to many magistrates and local governors who sympathised with the Boxer cause.

In 1900, after the Battle of Tientsin against the British, the foreign press declared that Yellow Lotus had been wounded and captured by British soldiers during the fight. It was reported that she had been beheaded after a swift court session in the battle’s aftermath. Other rumours pervaded, however: some said that Yellow Lotus had disguised herself as a fisherman and had escaped by sea, leaving a decoy to stand in her stead. Whether this rumour had any truth about it or not, the Japanese police forces in China didn’t officially cease their search for Lin Hei’er, aka Yellow Lotus, until 1923.

The rituals of the Red Lanterns, derived as they were from the Boxer traditions, were very similar to those of the parent organisation and may be of some interest. In the investiture ceremony, the initiate was made to kneel before the Boxer leader and swore a solemn oath, dedicating their life to the throwing off of foreign tyranny, to solidarity with other society members, and to a strict vow of secrecy. They also vowed to take the heavens as their father, the earth as their mother, the stars as their brothers and the moon as their sister.

The new initiate swore allegiance using the following words: “If I, your pupil, do not respect your law, or if I divulge this Way of Immortals, may my flesh be reduced to congealed blood. I will never go against this teaching. If I should go against this teaching may a thunderbolt strike me dead.” The sect leader would respond in this fashion: “I am a teacher; I do not teach an heretical sect. If I should transmit any heretical teaching, or if I should use tricks to get people’s money for myself, then may a thunderbolt strike me dead.” After this, the novice would drain a bowl of chicken’s blood.

Once the vow had been sworn, the initiate then began 49 days of intensive martial arts training. The style of the fighting skill depended upon a number of factors including the local area and the style which predominated there, or the style preferred by the Boxer leader in charge. During this training, the initiate was marked with a burn, usually to the back of the head, with a hot brand made from wormwood leaves. 

There are other rituals which took place during this training and they were designed to ramp up the initiate’s zealotry while simultaneously deadening their sense of pain. Many of these rituals involved drugging by means of the highly-poisonous compound, mercury sulphate. Hypnotism and the induction of trance states allowed the initiates to ignore the ravages of the battlefield, shrugging-off what they perceived as “mystically enlightened states of consciousness” and continuing to fight in the face of certain death. It’s likely that many Boxers killed in battle had no idea that they were even there.

Boxers were all taught “True Words”, an eight-character chant which was supposed to purify their soul and make them powerful fighters for the cause. The True Words were chanted to the “Three Easts” thrice each day, twenty-seven times facing east in the morning, fifty-four times facing south at noon, and eighty-one times facing west at dusk. The society placed great stock in the notion of spiritual purity and devotees were told that, if they weren’t sufficiently pure, the Boxers’ magic would not protect them. Once this became common knowledge, the foreign powers began to paint pictures of naked women on their cannons to ensure that the Boxers’ spells were ineffective against them.

In the final analysis, the Red Lanterns were a colourful and psychologically-challenging adjunct to the main Boxer contingents, not unlike the bizarre Ten Nai, or “Tiger Men”, who campaigned both with the Righteous Fists and the Imperials, and whose prancing and cavorting on the front lines threw the foreign troops into consternation. To this day the legend of Yellow Lotus and the all-female troops which she commanded is a staple mythology of the city of Tientsin wherein she and the Red Lanterns have attained the status of folk heroes.

*****

Additional Spells from the T’ai p’ing T’ao

Like most other spells from this set, there is a magical version of each spell and a mundane, non-mystical form, which depends more upon trickery and legerdemain than anything supernatural. Most spells require that the caster recite the standard “true words” and burn offerings to the dead – “joss paper”, “gold paper”, or “hell money”, a spiritual aid to the ancestors in the afterlife. Pear wood is often used for writing charms, since the wood of the pear tree is considered to be spiritually pure. Many of the mundane spells require that the recipient of the “magic” be thrown into a confused state or stupor: this is often achieved using fasting regimens, frenetic dancing or chanting, and often the application of some decoction, often based on alcohol or opium. Not uncommonly, these trances were induced using mercury sulphate – either breathed in as “incense” or imbibed as a potion. Derived from native cinnabar, this substance is lethally poisonous in sufficient doses.

When discovered in a Chinese Mythos tome, the Keeper should decide if the spells are the bogus rituals, the real magic, or a combination of the two, as suits their purpose and their story.

“Fire of Heaven”

Magical Version:

This spell is a modified version of the spell Summon Fire Vampire. The caster creates a magical cloth, investing it with 1 point of their POW. The cloth should be either yellow or red, and dyed, painted or embroidered with mystical sigils and “true words”. Into one corner of the cloth, a small number of coins should be sewn. The caster then awaits an evening when the star Fomalhaut is above the horizon and casts the Summoning spell as per usual; however, when the Fire Vampire appears, the caster brandishes the cloth and the ‘Vampire becomes trapped, inert, within it, able to be safely stored away. At a moment of the caster’s choosing, they are then able to flick open the cloth (using the weight of the coins to facilitate this action) and release the Fire Vampire to cause havoc. These cloths are especially useful for causing arson, or attacking enemies. Once freed, the Fire Vampire disappears back to whence it came; the cloth may then be used in a repetition of the casting.

If the coins used in creating the cloth are ones minted during the reign of the Kiangsi Emperor (of the Ming Dynasty) then the Summoning spell has a base 20% effectiveness.

Mundane Version:

The cloths in this version of the spell are not as elaborate. Usually, they are knotted heavily in one corner, or have stones or other weights tied into them; they are then dipped into some kind of accelerant liquid (petrol, or oil, say) and then ignited and tossed onto roofs, or through open windows. The Black Lantern brigade members are especially fond of this magic.

“Flying Dagger”

Magical Version:

By means of this spell, the caster enacts a long-range attack upon a chosen foe, attacking with surprise from an almost unlimited range. The spell is cast when the caster writes “true words” upon a piece of paper, using a pen made from pear wood, whilst burning “gold paper” and chanting, investing the paper charm with half their Magic Points (round up). The caster must then smuggle the charm into the clothing of their target, secreting it upon their person so as not to be detected. Ideal places for hiding the charm are inside hat bands, watch fobs, coat linings, tobacco pouches, snuff boxes, or similar: regardless, the charm must be on the person of the target when the spell is put into effect.

At the desired moment, the caster picks up a dagger and strikes the empty air with it, rolling their normal attack dice with a thrown, or wielded, knife; bonuses for Martial Arts skills, or similar, are added to this roll, if applicable. Wherever the target is – assuming that they are in the same dimension as the caster – they are suddenly attacked by a mysteriously-appearing dagger and, if the caster’s attack roll was successful, they take normally-rolled damage (including Damage Bonus, if applicable). They may also be susceptible to any poison which the blade may have upon it. If the attack roll was unsuccessful, then the blade simply materialises near the intended victim and clatters uselessly off the surroundings, startling the target (and causing concern for their security) but inflicting no physical harm. Meanwhile the caster loses 1d6 points of SAN.

For attack purposes, this dagger is able to Impale – even if the target is normally unaffected by such attacks - and is considered to be a magical weapon for this one strike.

Mundane Version:

This form of the spell is the complete opposite of the magical version. Where the magical version attempts to set up an ambush attack, the mundane version seeks to make the target feel that they have narrowly escaped such an attack. The caster needs to let the target know that they have the ability to cause a long-range attack upon their enemy, and to subtly leak the information of the process to them. They then should try to secret the charm – in this instance a non-magical scrawl upon a piece of paper - upon the target’s person as outlined above: even if the intended target fails to find the charm, they should be made to feel as though they have been effectively targeted for a magical attack.

After this, the caster then simply needs to find a way to sneak in to the target’s place of habitation and hide a dagger on the premises in such a way as to surprise the victim by its discovery. If possible, the blade can be hidden in such a way that the victim hurts themselves by lying down on it, or by walking or sitting on it; or it can just be left in plain sight. The target must be made to feel that they have narrowly escaped powers outside of their control and, if the revelation is especially effectively staged, they might be liable for a SAN check...

“Soul Travelling”

Magical Version:

In this iteration of the spell, the caster sits facing into the sunset and stares into the light of the setting sun until “their eyes glow with fire” all the while chanting the protective “true words”. At the point when the sun disappears over the horizon, the soul of the caster separates from their body (along with 10 of their Magic Points and 1d4 SAN) and is free to fly invisibly through the air and to spy upon the world around them. Red Lantern troops used this spell effectively to spy upon the Foreign Concessions and to discover enemy troop movements and supply lines. The soul is instantly returned to the host body at the next breaking of dawn; meanwhile, the inert body is vulnerable to any attacks or accidents which may happen to it and therefore the setting of a loyal guard is strongly suggested...

Mundane Version:

This version of the spell requires that the Red Lantern leader effectively co-ordinates the resources represented by the Blue Lantern brigades, those fifth column infiltrators who often work for the Foreign forces as servants and drudges, picking up all the snippets of information that fall their way. The caster may cobble together some mumbo-jumbo to impress their confederates with their powers of insight, or they may simply suggest that they have access to supernatural sources of information...

“Flying Fan”

Magical Version:

This spell requires the procurement of a well-made fan, either one well-made of costly materials or a sturdy War Fan. The caster chants “true words” over it whilst burning “gold paper” and costly incense for the duration. At the end of the ceremony 2 points of the caster’s POW are invested permanently into the fan and the caster loses 1d6 points of SAN.

This item is especially effective if the wielder is versed in Martial Arts. Whenever they need to make a Dodge roll while carrying the fan, they are automatically carried to a point just outside of the zone of danger, appearing to have executed a prodigious, floating leap. The same effect appears if the wielder is a Martial Artist and chooses to try and Parry an incoming attack – obviously, in this case, the correct rolls must be made in order for this effect to be successful.

The fan only works if it is carried by the caster and retains all of its original Hit Points. Once it loses these, it is no longer of any use. Repairing the fan between engagements will not prolong its life of usefulness.

Mundane Version:

This form of the spell requires a fair degree of initial set-up. The fan here is of an especially tough construction and may not even be usable as a fan at all. In fact, it is the handle of a secretive system of ropes, zip-lines and pulleys which the caster has established at a point where combat is likely to occur. Using these lines, the caster can engage with any enemies and appears to be flying or making huge leaps during the fight. Of course, innate Martial Arts ability goes a long way towards adding to the effectiveness of this illusion...

“Floating Soul”

Magical Version:

This spell requires the use of a copper bowl and water obtained from a high mountain source, either from a spring or melted from a high-altitude snowcap. This liquid must be used within a day of it being gathered otherwise the spell will be ineffective. The caster creates an altar made with three pieces of wood, not connected to each other by metal fasteners (such as nails, or wire), bonding agents (such as glue or varnish), ropes, sinew or string, or wooden pieces that have been worked by metal (wooden pins or dowels). The altar must be placed in an open area where wind can move over it and sunshine and rain can fall upon it. The copper bowl is placed upon this stand and is filled with the gathered water.

To cast the spell, the caster kneels before the altar and chants the “true words” while burning incense and “joss paper”. An offering of rice or orange peel is often made to whichever deity of ancestor the caster feels to be the most pertinent. At the end of the ceremony, they lose at least 12 Magic Points (by expending their full amount) and 1d10 points of SAN. Their soul now separates itself from their body and hovers over the copper bowl, appearing as a sort of heat haze to those who make a Spot Hidden roll in the vicinity.

The caster is now immune to any damage which affects their body. Any attack which causes them harm will be restored at rate of 1 Hit Point per minute until they are fully recovered. An attack which disintegrates the corpus completely will negate this effect, as will reduction of the body to zero Hit Points by fire. If the body is pinned or held by the damaging effect – beneath a landslide, for example, or held submerged beneath a body of water – the process of regeneration will be halted until such time as the body is freed, whereupon it will resume once more. The caster is not necessarily unaware of what is happening to them during these restorations and this may precipitate a SAN check.

The effect lasts only as long as the altar with its copper bowl of water remains in situ; if anything happens to upset, spill or dismantle the arrangement, the soul of the caster snaps back instantly to where it belongs and the caster will become immediately aware of what has taken place. This could well happen at a very inconvenient moment...

Mundane Version:

This non-magical version of the spell has the same set-up as the supernatural iteration, with one important difference: this spell is always cast upon someone other than the caster. The target of the spell is made to believe that afterwards, their soul has been separated and that they are immune to any harm. The recipient of the charm is made to chant and fast, creating a light-headed suggestible state; they are given euphoric, or opiate, decoctions to drink and unbalanced by the meaningless rituals. The bowl of water is surreptitiously topped up at some point by a layer of clear oil which is then set alight by means of a deftly-wielded joss stick: the heat haze that this generates is usually enough to convince the target that their soul is now floating on the sacred water...

“The Closed Fire and Sand Curse”

“Disciples in the red dust, obstruct the cannon’s mouths. Let their guns resound together and part the sands on both sides of us.”

Magical Version:

This is another expression of the classic Boxer magic which renders the faithful immune to Foreign weaponry, specifically the ballistic kind. Like all versions of this spell, the physical component is a piece of yellow paper, written over with coloured ink displaying “true words”, which is carried about on the person. Most versions of this spell simply bestow extra points of Armour upon the bearer allowing them to withstand a barrage for longer than normal; this version acts a little differently.

The Curse acts by repelling bullets away from the bearer of the parchment talisman. When fired upon, the bearer rebounds the bullet and the shooter must make a Luck Roll or find that they have shot themselves. If they make this roll, those nearby should then make similar rolls to avoid being hit by the ricochet. In the case of artillery, the cannon’s Malfunction Roll should be rolled with a +40% chance of failure, causing the gun to be destroyed by returning shot.

To cast the spell, the caster utters the “true words” while inscribing the charm with a pen made from pear wood, all the while burning “gold paper” and incense: the last lines of the chant are listed above. The spell requires the permanent loss of 1 point of POW and a number of Magic Points equal to the number of times that the charm will be effective (the sacrifice of POW is made first). The caster suffers a loss of 1d6 points of SAN while the bearer of the charm loses 1d2 points of SAN the first time the charm operates. Obviously, in a heated gun battle, the charm will lose its effectiveness very quickly...

Mundane Version:

As with other mundane versions of this spell, the casting ceremony involves much trance-inducing chanting and dancing and the imbibing of a special “warriors’ potion”. This potion is simply a distraction, often alcohol or a home-brewed narcotic to deaden pain (possibly opium). Once roused to an adrenalized fever-pitch by the dancing and chanting, the recipients of the spell often don’t even notice when they’ve been wounded anyway.

“The Never-Empty Pot”

Magical Version:

This spell requires the use of a sizable cooking vessel made of metal, like a cauldron or large cooking pot. The caster sits before the vessel and chants “true words” all the while feeding “joss paper” into a fire lit beneath the empty pot. When the bottom of the pot begins to glow from the heat, the caster stands and slices the palm of their hand with a knife: once the blood is flowing, they must squeeze a piece of edible fungus in their wounded hand and throw this into the pot. Immediately this is done, the fire must be extinguished and the pot removed from the cooking place. When the bloodied fungus stops sizzling, the pot’s interior can be examined:

For every 3 Magic Points expended by the caster in enacting the spell, 10 kilograms (22lbs) of edible fungus will be discovered growing on the sides of the pot and filling its interior. This can be cut out and prepared in many varied and interesting ways, even eaten raw if needs be. There is a catch: timing is everything with this spell and if the pot is too hot, or not removed quickly enough from the fire, then it will not work. The caster needs to make a Luck Roll to execute the manoeuvre swiftly enough for the spell to work. If the spell fails the caster has suffered 1 Hit Point of damage and possibly ruined a good pot; if it succeeds, they take the damage and lose 1d4 points of SAN. The caster is able to call upon others to help in the ritual and these assistants may add their own Magic Points to the spell; they do not lose Hit or Sanity Points for their involvement, but an averaged Luck Roll of everyone involved is used to determine whether the spell works.

Mundane Version:

 

The Blue Lantern brigades are masters of this spell effect and it has a number of expressions according to how hard the Devil is driving. The women of the Blue Lanterns are well-versed in scrounging: infiltrating as they do the Foreign Concessions, they are adept at stealing excess foodstuffs, spiriting away edibles that the wasteful Foreigners disregard and eking out small supplies of rations. The best Blue Lantern cadres are those whose averaged Bargain and Accounting skills are very high. In this way, they can make it seem that the food supplies available to the Boxer forces are apparently limitless.

This effect is not simply a remarkable sense of frugality, although that’s the biggest part of it. Given the devotion that these women have for the cause, there are other procedures and skills which they can bring to bear in order to feed and clothe the Righteous Fists of Heaven. Opium is an appetite suppressant and judicious lacing of food and drink with this substance can stop even the hungriest fighters from whining. Ideologically, the Boxers see no problem with using the Foreigner’s “Black Mud” against them in the war to drive them out of China. In certain dire cases, the Blue Lanterns themselves eschew eating for a steady diet of opiates, leaving more food available for the troops. And when things get really desperate, the Blue Lantern ladies know how to render any kind of meat unrecognisable on a dinner table. Any kind.

“Puppet Fighter”

Magical Version:

This spell imparts a Martial Artist’s fighting skill to another combatant, allowing them to fight a single session of combat with skills to which they would not otherwise have access. Under the supervision of the caster, the recipient of the spell effect and the skilled Martial Artist are subjected to a period of fasting and chanting, along with the ingestion of mind-altering drugs (often opium, but alcohol will serve). When both individuals are in a suggestible state, they are made to stand within a circle drawn upon the ground and the Martial Artist is told to practise their skills while the subject is told to follow their movements as closely as possible. The two are beaten severely with bamboo canes if they refuse, or fail to perform adequately; all the while, the caster shouts words outlining the conditions under which the spell will come into effect: these should be simple but specific – “attack so-and-so when they come for your evening report”, “attack the first person you see wearing a particular medal”, etc.

The spell has a base 10% chance of working; for every Magic Point the caster expends upon it, another 10% is added to the chance of success. The spell takes several days to orchestrate and this should be roleplayed as much as is possible. At the end of the casting, the Keeper rolls to see if the spell is effective; the caster has no means of knowing if the spell was cast successfully or not.

If it is, the target of the spell uses the fighting ability of the Martial Artist in a single combat session, the parameters of which are set by the caster’s choosing. The subject will launch the assault and fight to the bitter end to the best of the other victim’s ability. Until they see the end of the fight, they will not recall the time and effort spent casting the spell; ironically, they have no memory of these events even if the spell fails – until the trigger event transpires, whereupon it all comes back in a rush, with a 1/1d6 potential SAN loss sting in the tail.

Mundane Version:

In this form of the spell, the victim is imprisoned and denied food, sleep and exposure to natural light. Once their resistance is sufficiently broken down (accompanied by drugs and other procedures), a rigorous period of brainwashing takes place. The victim and the caster compare POWs on the Resistance Table: if the victim succeeds, the programming continues for another day. POWs can be compared only once each day, so the time invested in this “magic” is fairly intensive. Once the victim’s resistance has been overcome, the suggestion to attack the spell-caster’s target can be implanted into their receptive mind.

Note that, in this version of the spell, the victim fights using only such skills as they already possess, and any equipment that they own, or are supplied with. While executing the attack, they will believe that they have supernatural gifts but this is unlikely to be the case. Once the fight is over and the hypnotic state evaporates, the victim may well be required to undergo a SAN check.

*****

An obvious benefit of the T’ai p’ing T’ao is that they allow the keeper’s dubious NPCs to skitter about doing peculiar things without actually causing any sanity-blasting damage to the characters. Or at least, minimal damage. The mundane versions of the spells are complete scübidüberisms; but, like all such gaming features, they give your players a bit of a break between Mythos encounters.

Review: "The Lobster"

Lanthimos, Yorgos, “The Lobster”, Limp Films, et.al., 2015.

This is horrible.

It’s not strictly horror, although horrific things take place within it. It’s discussed loosely as a dystopian science-fiction piece, but that doesn’t sit right either. It feels more like an Absurdist work, or a magical-realist movie. The only thing that I can say definitively about it is that it is just nasty.

By way of a caveat before getting into the guts of it, it’s a movie in which terrible, appalling things happen to animals and, given my attitude towards such fare, you know I’ll be marking it down as a result. Doing my research post viewing I discovered that the director has a track record for depictions of animal cruelty and I doubt I would have gone to see this film if I’d known ahead of time. I feel kind of queasy now, having contributed anything to this monster’s career. Still, maybe I can now warn people to stay away.

To put this into some kind of perspective – lest you think I’m just being precious – in the opening scene of this film, a woman drives a car through the rain until she arrives at a field, draws out a pistol and guns down a donkey who doesn’t understand anything about what is going on until it’s too late. We are left to ponder this scene and no concrete answers as to why it appears are provided to us, the audience, despite the remainder of the film. In fact, the action and the woman have no relevance to anything that comes afterwards. The only thing that, in retrospect, this scene tells us is that women and animals are going to be harshly dealt with, on the one hand, and negatively portrayed, on the other, in what comes next.

Let me be clear: I am fully aware that, in some countries and cultures in the world, donkeys are eaten by people. However, just as I would be appalled to witness the actual death of a human being screened for my entertainment, I am equally disgusted that anyone would film an animal’s cruel and pointless killing and call it “art”. It isn’t. It’s pornography of a low and sadistic order. This is the leitmotif for the rest of this dubious work.

The story of the film concerns “Dave”, played by Colin Farrell, who enters a hotel to stay. After being intensively grilled and divested of his clothing and personal effects, he is told that he must find a partner within the next 45 days or suffer being turned into an animal. When asked what type of animal he would like to be transformed into, he decides that he would like to become a lobster. Thus, the film’s title.

The rest of the film’s first half follows Dave’s progress: he meets two other men seeking companionship and they observe the women who have arrived for the same purpose. There are events which throw the two groups awkwardly together and we hear a lot about the men and their tactics for passing the 45 days untransformed. The individuals in the Hotel are made to focus on what makes them unique and to look for that in others; unfortunately, they focus on things like lisps, or limps, or a tendency towards sudden nose-bleeds, rather than the qualities of their personalities. One young woman becomes a Shetland pony because no-one else has hair quite as nice as she does. The film is delivered in such a deadpan, Monty Python-esque fashion that I couldn’t make up my mind if these people were simply stupid, or if the director was in earnest.

Of the three men upon whom we’re made to focus, Dave has no overtly defining feature apart from his myopia. He has checked in with his brother who was transformed into a Border Collie during his previous stay but who is restricted to Dave’s room. None of the women present wear glasses or have animal companions so it seems that Dave is at a disadvantage. Of his two buddies, one (Ben Wishaw) has a limp and initially pursues a woman with a similar disadvantage until he works out that she only has a minor sprain. He therefore periodically fakes a bloody nose in order to win the favour of the young woman with this affliction and so fakes his way into passing the Hotel’s regime unscathed. John C. Reilly’s sad-sack character, the one with the lisp, is doomed to fail (he chooses, it is pointed out ironically, to become a parrot).

One way that the Hotel guests can prolong their stay is by participating in the nightly hunts, where, armed with tranquiliser dart guns, they pursue forest-dwelling “Loners” – people un-partnered and therefore barred from society – gaining a day’s reprieve for every sleeping Loner they bring back with them. One of the women – identified as “heartless” – takes inordinate pleasure in these events, brutally bashing and clubbing her tranquilised prey. Dave decides that he can also fake his way into couplehood by feigning a cold sociopathy the equivalent of hers. This he tries to do, until the morning he awakens to find that she has methodically kicked his brother to death in their bathroom: his inability to react unemotionally to this horrible moment sees them fighting together, she to expose his lies to the authorities, he to silence her before she blows the whistle. He eventually succeeds, by throwing her into the Transformation Room where she is turned into ... we are not told what, but it’s implied to be something horrible.

Here, the film loses its way. To avoid being exposed, Dave runs off into the forest and joins the Loners. We start from scratch learning about a new community and the rules which govern them. The leader of the Loners (Léa Seydoux) is petulant and scheming: she denies the Loners any attempts at pairing up, scarring and terrorising them for flirting, or kissing. Nevertheless, Dave encounters a short-sighted woman (Rachel Weisz) who responds affectionately to his presence. They battle uncertainty and jealousy to finally embark upon a relationship under the suspicious gaze of the Leader. Eventually, she discovers them and takes the woman into the City to have her blinded by an ophthalmic surgeon (!). Now that they have nothing more in common – he is still short-sighted, but she is now blind – the assumption is that they will drift apart. Again, I was bewildered: was the director being literal with this stuff? Or was it some kind of bizarre – and simplistic – metaphor?

The lovers decide instead to make a break and head for the sterile City where their status as couple will ensure their safety. They wind up at a diner where they agree that, in order to have something in common, Dave will blind himself with a steak knife so that they can continue on together. He doesn’t do this and abandons her. And that’s it.

This is a poisonous piece of work. The women involved are universally derided and misused, transformed against their will, forced to beg and whine for what they want, depicted as malicious, manipulative and spiteful, and, in the end, cast off as unnecessary. When the men enter the Hotel they are all dressed in dark trousers, white, or blue, button-down shirts, and blue blazers; the women are all dressed in the same provocative halter-neck dress. In other words, the men are all anonymized, while the women are all objectified. One woman begs Dave to couple-up with her, at first offering treats to his dog, then offering him sexual favours which he rebuffs: she threatens, and then succeeds, in throwing herself out of a window in despair. The youngest two women – best school friends – arrive together, then abandon each other in the struggle to “win”, and a bitchy break-up is all that is left of their camaraderie.

(On a side note, when did it become a thing that men desire, above all else, the possibility to sodomize other people? I’ve seen it in a bunch of films lately where women offer anal sex to men in return for advantage. The “Kingsmen” movie – despite its many, many flaws - was distinctly ruined for me in this regard, and this present movie also raised the issue. Frankly I don’t care what people get up to with each other, but this was a step too far. I would suggest that Yorgo Lanthimos simply gets off on women with posh British accents saying “fuck” and “arse” in the same sentence...)

On the other hand, the men all pal around, discussing and employing tactics in a bumptious, nerdy fashion, succeeding to various degrees before having the rug pulled out from underneath them. Amid the - at all times - dead-pan delivery of the film, the men are treated as innocent fools, bumbling their way around, while the women are all calculating and pre-meditated, built along the lines of Disney’s Cruella de Ville. There’s a hatefulness beneath the surface of this piece that undermines any attempt at gentle humour that the director seems to be heading for. In fact, I saw the trailer for this movie before seeing it and that document implied that this was going to be a quirky, off-kilter romantic comedy – there was no hint of the nihilism and venom to come.

I’ve read other reviews of this film in the meantime and many of them use words like “visionary”, “challenging” and “thought-provoking”. Don’t be fooled by the cine-files: this is a poisonous, unreconstructed, anti-feminist, hymn to the patriarchy, wrapped up in as many murdered animals as the director thought he could get away with. The presence of a percentage of the cast of “Spectre” and a handful of Academy Award winners and nominees should not influence your decision to see this; rather, it should make you wonder what on Earth they were thinking.

Avoid at all costs.

Zero Tentacled Horrors.

Review: "Crimson Peak"

del Toro, Guillermo, “Crimson Peak”, Legendary Pictures, 2015.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a del Toro fan. When I heard that there was a new film in the wings I started itching to see it: given that I live miles from anything that could be considered a big franchise cinema, I had to wait until it screened here at Mt. Vic. Flicks, a month after its initial release. That’s no problem as far as I’m concerned: I can do without the crowds, the assigned seating (a new thing which is supposed to be an extra mark of customer care but which is just crap), the stench of popcorn (which makes me puke) and the inevitable tools who update their Facebook feeds all the way through the screening:

“Dudes! I’m like, watching ‘Crimson Peak’! It’s just started!”

“Dudes! It’s five minutes later and like, nothing’s happened yet!”

“Dudes! I’m starting to wish I’d gotten some popcorn. Mia Washacowski is HAWT!”

“Dudes!...” Well. You get the idea.

I had just had afternoon tea with friends at a cafe in Mt. Victoria and since rain prevented walking, we decided to ramble over to the cinema and see what fare was on offer. Encountering other ramblers who’d had similar ideas, we saw that “Crimson Peak” was about to start and so, sauntered in. A much more civilised way of going about things.

(Mind you, my recent “Rocky Horror” experience at this same venue was anything but civilised; however, I’m prepared to call that a blip rather than the norm!)

119 minutes later and I realised something had happened which I never thought I’d ever experience: a bad Guillermo del Toro film! Inconceivable! I mean “Pacific Rim” was touch-and-go, although it managed to rally itself in the third act, but this...? I’m still shaking my head. Let’s tear it apart...

The film falls into two halves: the first half is pure Edith Wharton, a sundrenched, steam-powered excursion to Buffalo in New York where Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) lives with her father, widower Carter Cushing, played by Jim Beaver (my favourite actor from “Supernatural”). Edith aspires to be a writer but faces rejection from her publisher due to her sex – she obviously hasn’t thought about changing her name to ‘George’ yet. Into their lives stalks the tailored silhouette of Sir Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston) seeking financial backing for a mining device that he has invented and keen to get Mr Cushing and his cronies as backers. With him stalks his equally-menacing sister Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain). Sir Thomas woos Edith, tearing her away from her childhood amore Dr. Alan McMichael (Charlie Hunnam of “Pacific Rim” fame), but Carter smells a rat and sends in a private investigator to sniff about the errant nobles. Evidence of foul play is unearthed: Carter pays off the miscreants and sends them packing; however, before they depart, Carter Cushing is horribly murdered and Edith falls upon Sir Thomas’s plighted troth in her time of grief. They depart to Scotland, newly-wed.

As I said, this half is pure Edith Wharton, or maybe Henry James. It’s a society ball wrapped in a comedy of manners and social propriety, lavishly tailored with corsets and Gibson-girl hairdos. It’s practically a John Galsworthy novel in précis. There are many references to butterflies and moths all through the film and Mia Wasikowska’s Edith is the symbolic butterfly, pinned by nefarious inclinations: her gowns have incredibly puffy sleeves which are designed to give her a winged silhouette and sometimes they’re just plain distracting, although not as bad as the zippers that marred the costuming of Scorsese’s “Age of Innocence”. If this was the extent of the film, I’d be happier with it, especially Leslie Hope’s catty portrayal of Dr. McMichael’s society mother. Unfortunately, there’s the second half.

Scene change to Crimson Peak in the Scottish Highlands, so called because the red clay on top of which the house is built bleeds through the snow turning it red in Wintertime. Edith finds her new home somewhat less than welcoming: it’s dark; it’s dreary; there’s no heating; there’s a massive hole in the roof which lets in all kinds of weather; the place is subsiding into the boggy ground below; and Lucille has become less friendly and, in fact, downright sniffy overnight. Once we’re settled in, we begin to unearth the secrets that the grim manor is hiding. From here on in, it’s a railroad ride through a custom-made haunted house that was evidently del Toro’s visual hook for the movie, but away from which the story had wandered at some point, finding other rationales and purposes quite apart from the need for an open-house at the Addams’ Family Mansion. It’s frankly a mistake to drag the story back here, having made such inroads in the opening act, but del Toro does it anyway.

We discover that the Sharpe siblings have been ruthlessly wooing rich women and stripping them of their fortunes in an attempt to prop up and then escape their ancestral home. To this end they are now slowly poisoning Edith and keeping her a virtual prisoner in the cranky house, cutting her off from the outside world. Paperwork, signing over her fortune to Thomas Sharpe, dribbles in until there is just one final piece of penmanship left before the fortune is all theirs: Dr. McMichael wanders in at this point and makes a valiant attempt to flee with his childhood sweetheart. Knives flash, blood flies and the reunited lovers stagger away from the nightmare which had threatened to consume them. Credits roll.

Like I said, it’s a train ride to the finish. Nothing is really a surprise in the second half: the Sharpes are murdering Edith; evidence of their previous misdeeds spews forth in abundance; they are discovered sleeping together; the fact that one of them murdered Carter Cushing is revealed; they both die horribly. The only thing that did surprise me was the fact that Lucille didn’t end up getting chomped by the massive mining device which takes up so much of the landscape. This is del Toro channelling Edgar Alan Poe and not in a good way: if it had just been this half as the substance of the movie, or the first half extended out and left to do its own thing, the end result would have been fine. Instead it’s a mish-mash of two separate genre pieces not working together at all. At a certain point, this story became about something quite apart from ghosts and creepy houses; it’s just that del Toro refused to do the sensible thing and let those bits fall by the wayside.

Oh, and there are ghosts. Quite incidental and unnecessary ghosts, which contribute nothing concrete to the story. I just thought I’d mention that.

I guess everyone has to make a stinker at some point; I was hoping that “The Hobbit” was going to be del Toro’s. Obviously he was winding up for something bigger. This isn’t a good film, but it’s not horrific (if you take my meaning): it’s visually stunning, without any substance. It ticks all the del Toro boxes (except for the shoe fetish) but it’s just clunky and awkward. Let us draw a discreet veil across it...

Two Tentacled Horrors.

Review: “Sleepy Hollow” – Season Two

WISEMAN, Len, et.al., (Dirs.), “Sleepy Hollow – Season Two”, Sketch Films, K/O Paper Products, Twentieth Century Fox, 2015.

Is there a self-help organisation for actors who lay on the ham? Something like “Overactors Anonymous”? Well, after this, I’m going to assume there must be. Everyone in this show is enunciating to the back row. Melodrama has come to the ‘Hollow and the cast are agonising more about their personal relationships than about the demon in the room. At least with the first season of this show there were some laughs; now, the humour is as sparse as the heating at Valley Forge.

“Sleepy Hollow” kicks off with Ichabod Crane and Abbie Mills stuck in Purgatory and trying to escape, which they do, this being the first episode of the new series and there wouldn’t be much to fill in the remaining 12 episodes if they didn’t. Once achieved, they hit the ground running, eschewing celebrations of their victories for humorous fist-bumps and cheering intermittent moments of “clarity” showing them the way forward. Of course, the miasma which prevents them from formulating a clear plan of attack is one which they repeatedly generate on their own, so I’m amazed the bad guys didn’t get them on the ropes sooner.

As in the first series, this story once more generates its own rationales out of tissue-thin pretexts, mainly of the “I studied at Oxford, therefore I know everything”, or the “I’m a policewoman so normal operating procedures don’t apply to me” variety. As with the first series, if these things bother you, then you will not enjoy yourself. Having also watched “Grimm”, I’ve come to appreciate how much that show obeys the rules of the real world and creates from them a further layer of difficulty which our heroes have to work around; in “Sleepy Hollow”, our heroes do whatever they want whenever they want with no consequences. In one episode, a ten-year-old girl is whistled off by a Pied Piper and Abbie sets up a dragnet to search for her, command of which she blithely walks away from to go ghostbusting with her bestie, Ichabod. I imagine there were lots of police officers sitting around twiddling their thumbs in the background of this story. Of course, in these stories, if our heroes aren’t free to go and kick monster heads, nothing happens; but at least the rationale of how they get the opportunity to resolve things should be written into the story. “Night-Stalker” did it; “The X-Files” did it; even “Grimm” does it: why can’t “Sleepy Hollow” do it?

I have a sneaking suspicion that, for the creators of this show, it’s less about making sense and more about the visuals. In this regard there’s lots to enjoy. The monsters are effectively realised; the special effects are genuinely special; the costuming and art direction are all top-notch. None of this matters though, if the writing sucks.

One of the things I liked about Season One was the random outrage that Ichabod displayed at discovering the world for which he had fought had seemingly abandoned its once-sacred principles. In the second season, these irruptions also occur, but there’s a staginess about them now, as if consumer polls were taken and this feature was identified as something the fans particularly liked. Now it’s formulaic. The rant over chaining pens to desks in banks is amusing in and of itself, but bizarre in that there are more important things going on which should be occupying Crane’s attention. Too, there are many moments in which Ichabod reveals a growing familiarity with the modern world that cuts across this outrage disconcertingly, his addiction to reality TV shows being one of these.

As to the other characters, Abbie seems to be the only one with any real focus throughout all of the mayhem. Unlike virtually anyone else in the mix, she identifies the baddies and focuses her efforts on taking them down. Along the way however, she has to juggle Ichabod’s wavering over fighting his son or rescuing his wife, Katrina’s “is she? Or isn’t she?” motivations, and her own sister Jenny’s mistrust of her position as a representative of Authority. Wrangling her so-called allies is what she spends most of her screen-time doing; the only other person in the cast as focussed as she is, is Henry, the Horseman of War, servant of Moloch and son of Ichabod and Katrina. Her default character tic is to roll her eyes a lot, and it’s not hard to fathom why.

A new semi-regular character is Eric Hawley, a louche dealer in supernatural artefacts, bounding out of Jenny’s past. His role is clearly designed to facilitate magical trinkets and ancient texts into the plots, but his attraction to Abbie, while fending off Jenny’s desire to reignite their old relationship, makes for some interesting character wrinkles.

Former sheriff Frank Irving becomes the tragic muppet of evil Henry in this season, tricked into signing his soul away and ultimately becoming War’s unwilling instrument. Some of his interactions smack of simply finding something for him to do (now that he appears in the opening credits) but there’s very little of that. His replacement as sheriff, hard-nosed latina police career-woman Reyes, suffers from ‘needs of the moment’ plotting as well: she busts Abbie’s balls, then lets her get away with murder in alternate waves, which make little sense in the scheme of things. Once again, the writers' need to let their stars out to play takes precedence over any kind of structural logic.

By means of a magic bauble, our Headless Horseman appears fully intact and no longer sans tete, a nod, I’m guessing, to the time and money it takes to digitally remove it in every scene in which he shows up. Sadly, there’s a glitch: Katrina is the one wearing the emerald, allowing her to see Abraham’s head, so why is it that Henry can see Abraham fully incarnate also? Hmm. It’s these little slips that start to let the show down. Another instance: Ichabod’s evil twin appears to Abbie in Purgatory and tries to seal her doom (punching out the real Ichabod en route). She spots the ring-in and decapitates him after he calls her “LOO-tenant” rather than Ichabod’s usual “LEFF-tenant”, thereby avoiding destruction. However, from this point on, Ichabod vacillates between the two pronunciations for the rest of the season – I was wondering if it was actually a cunning plot point on the writers’ part, and that the real Ichabod was quietly decomposing in Hell all the while. But no: just a continuity error, folks. Nothing to see here.

(Do continuity people actually do anything on a film set nowadays? Or are they as unnecessary as writers are rumoured to be?)

As to the historical background, the warping and perversion continue apace. Did you know that Benedict Arnold only became a traitor because he pocketed one of Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver? Or that Benjamin Franklin – an early naturist – only went kite-flying in the rain in order to try and destroy the Key to Purgatory? This show takes the same line as that god-awful series of films starring Nicolas Cage called “National Treasure” (which I have re-named “Notional Treasure” in my head) and runs in the same direction. I mean, it’s history people; how is it not interesting anyway, before you start to mangle it beyond all recognition? This is why there are people out there who think Game of Thrones is real...

In the final analysis, where I was hoping that the first season jitters would be overcome and the show would lift its game in the second outing, it seems that complacency has wandered through the district instead. Maybe things are a little too sleepy in the ‘Hollow and some laziness has crept in? Like last time, to enjoy this show, you need to leave your brain at the door and just run with the visuals: don’t try to analyze, and certainly don’t bring your master’s degree in American history – you will just start foaming at the mouth.

All the anti-intellect around this vehicle makes me think that the fans of this show, rather than being called “Sleepyheads”, should rather be termed “Hollow-heads” instead.

Two Tentacled Horrors.

Postscript:

The Lovecraftian references are thick on the ground here: apparently the Alhazred couplet ("That is not dead...") is a spell for animating dead bodies and Robert E. Howard's character Solomon Kane gets re-worked as an evil warlock named "Solomon Kent". I passed over these in the main body of my review because they're cheap and tawdry borrowings that just further show how lazy the writing behind this series truly is...

In Deep - 22:Epilogue

The Feds came to give us the once-over. It wasn’t an obvious check up on the community’s health – they didn’t declare themselves openly – but the only people around here who wear Hawaiian print shirts and sunglasses, do so with a sense of irony. Not so these guys. Obviously, whatever they were looking for, they didn’t find, so after about a week they vanished as quietly as they came.

There was a fair mess to look at though. The lower storeys of the Gilman House Hotel’s north wing were completely gutted by fire and the boathouse had slumped into the ocean. There had been deaths and mysterious disappearances on top of it all. However, all the subtle and discreet questioning you like will get you nowhere when the local population gives you a unified, blank, wall-eyed stare in response. You don’t get micro-expressions in Innsmouth; you get ‘mackerel expressions’.

I spent some time in bed after the boathouse demolition. I woke up at the “Sunny Seashells Holiday Home” and Mrs Pettifer poured as much chicken soup into me as I could comfortably choke down. Apparently, I’d been found on the beach a couple of days after the wave hit, unconscious but fundamentally intact. Still, a fishing-spear through the shoulder is not something that even I walk away from lightly. I spent a couple weeks sitting around the apartment watching “Flipper” re-runs.

Stan Eliot and the rest of the Elders of the Esoteric Order of Dagon set to work putting the town back to rights. The Order took over the running of the Gilman House Hotel after no other Gilmans could be found living topside to inherit. Re-building of the damaged wing is underway and is set to be finished within the year. They offered me the position of manager for the place, but I turned it down: that kind of responsibility is a headache I don’t need.

I’ve made a few other changes to my lifestyle. For starters, I bought the “Sunny Seashells” from the owners who – I believe – were glad to be free of the white elephant and clear of the reminder of their entrepreneurial failure. The only tenants living there now are me and Rodney on the ground floor and Mrs Pettifer has the upstairs to herself. Other than that, the place is once more overgrown and continuing its fall into desuetude. The rent-free existence is something we’re all starting to get quite used to. As to work, I’m prepared to pick up a case if it’s interesting enough; but, for now, I have enough gold and platinum to keep me comfy for the time being.

The other day I was sitting on the beach with Rodney. We had a banana lounge each: I had perched a sombrero on top of Rodney’s brain tank and his laptop was playing a selection of Beach Boys favourites. We had fancy drinks with little umbrellas in tiki mugs (although I drank his) and the Chaucha Black Dragon Noodle House was just a short shuffle away through the sand whenever the munchies hit. I had discovered that Madame Klopp and her chop-socky boys operated this joint and, in the spirit of maintaining a steady flow of White Pork specials in my direction, I extended the hand of friendship, waived the issue of my 25K and buried the hatchet. Madame Klopp was sheepish initially, but soon considered herself the winner in the deal. That is, if we were talking about the same deal at all from her perspective...

The sky was slate grey but the day was warm. I eased myself into the complaining lounge and began popping onion rings in my mouth with my chopsticks. Before me the wide Atlantic rolled away to spill over the edge of the world. I belched loudly; life was good.

Rodney paused momentarily from updating his Facebook status.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you think it was that night? That thing you saw get Winston.’

I hunkered back and pushed my Ray-Bans back up my nose. ‘Dunno,’ I said, ‘I’m guessing whatever it was it was set to attack whoever let it loose. At least, I figure that’s why The One Who Came told me to make sure I got someone else to destroy the stone, and not to do it myself.”

‘So getting Winston to hit it with the bang-stick was your master plan, huh?’

‘There was no master plan, Rodney. I was just gonna deck Winston and let Stan and the other Elders sort the whole thing out. It was a complete accident.’

‘Sure it was,’ said Rodney. ‘Say! Do you wanna know how many calories there are in an onion ring?’

‘Pass,’ I said throwing the last few at a trio of loitering seagulls, who immediately started squabbling over them. ‘Say, Rodney – can you see something over there by the water’s edge?’

‘Over where?’

‘Never mind.’ I got up and trotted over the warm sand. The cool waves sluiced deliciously over my toes as I neared the object burying itself slowly beneath the grains. I reached forward quickly and snatched it up: it was my Desert Eagle, a little rusted but no worse for wear. I scanned the distant line of Devil Reef, knowing I would see nothing but the far-off breakers. I held up the gun and gave the thumbs-up sign with my other hand. I tucked the firearm into the waistband of my shorts and walked back towards Rodney. When I got there, there was a familiar little man in black standing next to our campsite, with a dapper moustache and a wheeled black crate by his side. He bowed as I drew near.

‘What’s this?’ I said.

‘There is One Who is Coming,’ he intoned, all sparkly-eyed, ‘to Discuss the Matter of your Final Payment.’

‘How ‘bout that?’ I said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

The little fellow waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘but may I Borrow your Lawn-Mower?’

‘It’s right where you left it,’ I said, ‘help yourself.’

He beamed and toddled off to get set up. I sank back onto my banana lounge and pulled my hat down over my eyes. As the sound of grass mowing filtered in from the distance, I snoozed and dreamed beautiful dreams of the Change...

Fin.

In Deep - 21: Winston Gilman

Beyond the trellis lay a twisting trail of artfully arranged stone paving that meandered down a cliff-face to a trim little boathouse built amongst the rocks at the lower end of Innsmouth’s mile-long beachfront. At one time, the pretty little walkway was dotted with landscaped gardens nestled in the turns and switchbacks; now it was just choked with salt-crusted greenery. Some long-departed Gilman had built the boathouse for his private yacht, but over time it had been expanded to accept various pleasure craft for hire to hotel guests and it had been accessorised with a walled-off swimming area and poolside bar, for those inclined to bathe. I hadn’t been there in an age but I remembered that it had become a dumping-ground for old furniture and other refuse which the Hotel generated on an annual basis. However, the main feature of the locale – and one I figured would be of pertinent interest to Winston right about now – was the fact that it had a mooring berth for a seaplane.

I jogged off down the path, trying to avoid the broken pavers and sections that had turned to bog. At the second bend I stopped: below me, the lights of the boathouse blinked on and I could hear the distant throbbing of a generator as the wind turned my way. I lifted my gaze to stare out to sea: the waves dashing against Devil Reef were iron-grey and cold as judgement. The sky above started to blur about the edges as the rain began to pour down once more. I turned up my collar and picked up the pace.

As I reached the boathouse a boom rang out from above. I looked behind me to see flames rising upwards from the Gilman House Hotel’s north wing. Orange light flickered off the boathouse windows and the steadily lapping waves around me. Here, the sound of the generator was almost deafening and it could mean only one thing – Winston was fuelling the ‘plane for take-off. I hefted the Desert Eagle in my paw and tried the doorknob: it turned and I gently pushed the door open.

Inside the place smelled of damp rope and dust. The sound of the generator drowned out the roar of the rain on the roof, but not by much. About me stood piles of broken furniture stretching their broken legs and vomiting horsehair through splits and tears. Glittering darkly in the corner was a massive mirror-ball left over from the 70s. Oars and lobster pots created obstacles on the floor, while the ceiling swung with canoes and dinghies. Through the floorboards I could feel the throb and punch of slapping waves below.

I tiptoed forward to the doorway opposite. Through it I could see the long pier which constituted this side of the boathouse, stretching perpendicular to the horizon. The seaplane sat at berth against this, the gasoline tubes gurgling fuel into her side. I began to turn to survey the entrance to the building opposite when something hard smashed against my hand knocking the Desert Eagle from my grip and sending it off the edge of the pier into the water below.

‘I think I like you better unarmed,’ said Winston, dropping the boathook and stepping out of the shadows.

I rubbed my hand. ‘Well, there’s a big difference between “unarmed” and “not dangerous”,’ I said.

He hefted a loaded speargun for me to see. ‘That’s why I’m carrying this,’ he sneered. ‘Why don’t we stroll over to the ‘plane, hmm?’

I raised my hands and did as I was told. As we drew up alongside the aircraft, Winston stepped up to the gas pump and switched it off. The generator racket subsided to be replaced by the hush of the rain as he drew the pipe hose back from the ‘plane, keeping a wary eye on me all the while. Through the open door of the cockpit, I could see the bluish-grey shape of the stone, locked clumsily in place on the passenger’s side with the seat belt. On the planking below was a confused jumble of gear, hurriedly assembled for loading: a creel full of candy-bars, a six-pack of beer, two bang-sticks, a wetsuit and a pair of flippers. I rolled an aerosol can to one side with my toe: whipped cream.

‘Everything a growing boy needs, huh?’ I observed.

‘Along with a very valuable stone’ said Winston, switching the pump handle off, ‘and when I get to where I’m headed, I’ll start the bidding once more.’

‘Where are you headed, Winston?’ I fished.

He snorted derisively. ‘As if I’d tell you that,’ he sneered. ‘What do you take me for?’

I let that pass: some targets are too easy. ‘Why, Winston?’ I asked instead, ‘you’ve cut yourself off completely from your people, burnt all your bridges - is that rock worth it? Really?’

‘My People?’ He threw the words back at me venomously. ‘What has this place ever done for me? Ever since I was hatched, I’ve been locked into one role, my destiny all mapped out for me. When did I ever get the chance to do what I wanted? No, it was always “when Winston takes over the Hotel”. All my brothers and sisters got to leave; they got to see the world and try other things. Me? No, Winston has to stay home and look after the family interests...’

‘That’s not that bad a life,’ I said, ‘it’s got a lotta perks...’

‘So? It still means I’m locked into this rotten town, going nowhere...’

I changed tack. ‘All your brothers and sisters came back though, right? Ephraim and Carter? Prudence?’

‘Yeah, when they were through living their lives, they came back!’

‘It’s not like Ephraim and Carter had a choice, Winston,’ I cut in, ‘they were lucky to be up-coast when the Feds attacked. They had no choice but to get to Canada and lay low.’

‘Sure,’ Winston agreed, ‘but then they went to Europe, Ephraim got into theatre and then suddenly he’s back in California and in the movies with a stage name. He even got Carter a few on-screen roles right before he Changed. They had their choices and they took them; lived large and only came back when they had to.’

‘Prudence didn’t come back for the Change; she returned to look after your mother.’

‘Yes, but until then she was living it up in New York - high society and Manhattan skylines. She could’ve stayed if she’d wanted...’

‘...but she knew where her duty lay. Isn’t it true that, if Jezebel hadn’t sneaked you and Prudence off to Arkham, you’d have all gone through the camps too...?’

‘Yes, grateful, devoted little Prudence: what a saint she was!’ Winston snorted.

I put my hand in my pocket. Instantly, Winston trained the speargun on me.

‘Careful now,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to have to perforate you.’

I rattled my cigarette packet at him, and he relaxed a bit. Pulling a smoke out with my lips I said:

‘If your siblings were going to be such a hard act to follow, why didn’t you just eat them all in the womb?’

He sneered again. ‘Not all of us are öophagous,’ he spat.

I smiled my razor smile. Reaching once more into my pocket, I pulled out the metallic orb and showed it to him.

‘What’s that?’ Winston asked warily.

‘It’s a funky lighter I got off Rodney,’ I lied, ‘You don’t mind?’

He waved his free had at me indicating that I could continue. I brought the orb up to my face and rapidly scanned it: as before, it was irregular and constructed of many interlocking plates, in the grooves between which, an intermittent blue pulse occasionally flared. On one side was a deep blue bubble of some hard, glassy material. Alphonse had said it was a weapon and to point it carefully; the only feature about it which seemed at all worthy of pointing was this glassy eye bit, so I quickly extended my arm and pointed it at Winston.

Nothing happened. I gritted my teeth and jerked my hand again. Still nothing happened.

There was a twanging sound, followed by a meaty thunk. I groaned and sank to my knees, before slumping over sideways. The spear had gone in under my collar-bone and protruded out through the fabric of my coat in back. Oozing ichor, I let go of the metal ball: it rolled awkwardly on the planking, before emitting a blast of humming, blue-white light that blew a hole in the roofing overhead.

‘Excellent,’ I muttered.

Through a brief rain of flaming splinters and molten drops of metal roof-sheeting, Winston stepped forward, picking up one of the bang-sticks as he did so. His face was pale and expressionless, rigid with determination: I imagined that this is how he must’ve looked as he plugged Abner. With a savage kick, he consigned the alien device to the waters.

‘I could use a hand here, Winston,’ I said thickly.

‘Have you seen what one of these can do?’ he asked, I assumed rhetorically, ‘it’s loaded with a 20-gauge shell. All I have to do is touch you with the business end and – boom! You’re seven types of mincemeat on the decking. How about that Benson?’

‘Terrific,’ I grunted, trying to sit upright, ‘you do realise that most of the sharks around here are family, so we don’t really need these kinds of deterrents?’

‘Oh we don’t use them on the sharks,’ he purred closing in, ‘they have a far more recreational use on the land...’

I heaved and kicked him across the face, sending him wheeling backwards. There was a loud bang, then I threw myself back, with both hands on the spear shaft, digging the barbed point deep into the boards beneath me. Then, I snapped the shaft off short near the entry wound and stood up, drawing the spear head through me, breathing raggedly through bloodied lips. The broken spear shaft clattered to the floor.

‘Unarmed,’ I reminded Winston, ‘but definitely far from toothless.’

However, Winston was otherwise occupied.

‘No! No! No!’ he wailed. He was fumbling with something in the front of the seaplane. The seatbelt straps flopped loosely about and several jagged, fist-sized grey lumps fell out from the cockpit, plopping into the water below. Winston spun to face me, his rain-soaked face contorted in rage.

‘You made me break it!’ he screamed. ‘I hit it with the bang-stick! It’s useless now!’

I was only half-listening. From the cockpit a shining radiance shimmered forth and grew in flickering intensity. There seemed to be something small and jewel-like lying amid the remains of the stone. My interest in it must have drawn Winston’s attention, because he turned sharply, snatched at it, and lifted it up. It illuminated his face intensely echoed by the insane gleam in his eyes. He darted a look at me then fumbled on the floor beneath the ‘plane’s passenger seat. When his hand re-appeared, it held a flare gun. Which, of course, he aimed at me.

‘Obvious, now that I think of it,’ he said, half to me, mostly to himself, ‘it’s not the stone, but what’s inside it that’s so valuable! This – this shining thing! Well, this will be much easier to slip past Customs.’

‘Winston...’ I started, but he’d had enough. He raised the flare gun and shot me point-blank with it. I was immediately blinded, choked by smoke and wracked by searing pain in my chest.

‘Good-bye, chum,’ I heard Winston say and the door to the seaplane slammed shut. The engines roared into life.

Agonised, I fell to the planking and tried to roll, but my dead arm wasn’t playing. I groaned and patted the wooden boards: knowing that they ran outwards from the building to the edge of the jetty, I orientated myself and heaved myself forward on my belly. The fading sound of the ‘plane droned away as I reached the edge of the dock and rolled myself over.

Once submerged in the cool, quiet, dimness, I made short work of wrenching the flare out of my flesh; it still burned but smoke and light were mostly cancelled out by the immersion. I let go of it to one side and then kicked my legs strongly. I landed adeptly back on the jetty, standing up to see the seaplane’s taillights lifting up over the water.

I wasted no time. I kicked my way into the boathouse and made my way to the main office. There was a radio there and it represented my last chance to try and turn Winston around. I grabbed the earphones and flicked switches: through the window I could see Devil Reef and the pinpoints of light that were Winston’s farewell to Innsmouth. There was something else too: behind the seaplane and closing fast was a fiery blackness, something like smoke and something like a tear in space. It roiled and flared and inky tendrils of dark bluish-blackness stretched out towards the aircraft.

The radio blared into life in my hands. ‘I see it!’ it was Winston’s voice. panicked, terrified. ‘Coming here – hell-wind – titan blue-black wings...’ some static cut through, then, ‘...save me – the three-lobed burning eye...!’

‘Winston! Winston!’ I pressed up to the window, one hand braced against it, the other holding the earphones, and watched as the inky cloud enveloped the aeroplane completely.

Suddenly, a mountainous object breached up out of the surf beyond Devil Reef. It reared skywards, monstrous, dark and shining, writhing in the moonlight which it rapidly eclipsed. A titanic maw, impossibly huge, opened along its leading edge and engulfed both the ‘plane and its black shroud. I saw writhing tentacles; glittering teeth; then the cyclopean bulk plummeted back into the ocean sending forth a wave which tore the boathouse apart and knocked me senseless...

To Be Concluded...