Bryan: User:Rabbit/Anubis moved to User:Phil Geusz/Anubis: requested username change

2008-10-03T06:32:41Z

User:Rabbit/Anubis moved to User:Phil Geusz/Anubis: requested username change

← Older revision		Revision as of 01:32, 3 October 2008
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Bryan: Phil gave permission on the TSA-Talk mailing list to copy over his stories from the TSA, so I'm copying this text from http://tsa.transform.to/furry/anubis.html

2008-01-02T06:51:47Z

Phil gave permission on the TSA-Talk mailing list to copy over his stories from the TSA, so I'm copying this text from http://tsa.transform.to/furry/anubis.html

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[[Category:Story]][[Category:Phil Geusz]] {{DEFAULTSORT:Anubis}}
{{title|name=Anubis|user=Rabbit|author=Phil Geusz}}

{|
|-
| width=80% | SIRS-
| June 6, 1821
|-
| colspan=2 | I forward to you with the greatest reservations the enclosed writings of a certain Carey Moore, which purports to be an account of the loss of a missing brigantine out of Boston. While the fantastic ravings of this poor lunatic can hardly be taken seriously, the letter was indeed found in what appeared to be a Boston-made ship's boat, and was written in the American style. Therefore, I have made the decision to include this find in the current despatch home. May you find more wisdom in understanding it than I have been able to muster.
|-
|
|Your Obed't Servant<br/>
Capt. Horatio Pipeman<br/>
USS Constitution
|}
{{separator}}

For the love of God!

Stranger, I know ye not. But in the name of Jesus hearken unto my plea,
and read of the fate of my shipmates and I! For we know not what sin we
committed, or commandment we broke. Yet truly, we were delivered to the
Pit of Satan himself.

Our fair ship, the "Mark van Sciver", was a two-masted brigantine in
fine shape. Veteran of two cruises to the coast of Spanish California,
she was a hearty and fast vessel, if a bit clumsy in light airs. And her
crew was a hearty lot, all of us shipped on shares and well suited to
each other's company. We were loaded with tobacco and whiskey, and
planned to make our return voyage laden with the hides such as we had
dealt in before. All in all, we expected a two-year voyage and a
profitable though not spectacular payoff. The only real danger expected
was from the sea herself, especially the peril of rounding the horn.
Most of the crew had done it before, some like the Captain several
times. But I was Ship's Boy, and looked forward to the world's most
difficult passage with eagerness and excitement. Little was I to know
what else this trip held in store...

The winds were fair on our Southern leg, and the crew settled well into
ship's routine like the old salts they were. Captain Thomas, who had
taken me in after the death of my parents from smallpox, took me aside
and instructed me in the rudiments of navigation while the crewmen
taught me seamanship and how to be a good shipmate. It was Captain
Thomas's hope that after such a trip I might have the makings of an
officer, and that perhaps I could serve under him in the future.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Thomas looked out after me like she might one of her
own, and saw to it that I kept up my lessons in Bible study. It was a
happy trip for me, an adventure that would have taken my mind off the
passing of my family had it been given a chance. One that would have
given me a trade, and the Thomas's a partial substitute for their own
dead son Ewell, killed on the Great Lakes under Commodore Perry.

A trip that could have ended in happiness and healing, instead of death
and misery. And worse-than-death.

There were only two memorable happenings for me prior to our attempt to
round the Horn. One was our Line-crossing party. Captain Thomas himself
played King Neptune at the traditional event, while I was scrubbed and
forced to eat vile things and mocked terribly by my friends as the price
of my admission to Neptune's realm. The other was just before the
rounding itself, when one morning we encountered what Captain Thomas
said was the largest iceberg he'd ever seen.

Now, Captain Thomas was a kind and generous Captain, not at all like
some I've heard about. And fresh water is always short aboard ship. We'd
been sailing for several weeks through the tropics, and all of us
continually felt a little thirst. We weren't suffering, mind you. But
the thought of a good long iced drink, well...

I was allowed to pull an oar on the ship's boat, and other than
catching a couple crabs and upsetting the stroke of my fellow boatmen I
did a man's work, too. Captain Thomas found us a safe approach, and we
men climbed up the slippery slope and hacked away until we got below the
salty crust to the good sweet water below. Then we mined great chunks,
so that our boat was almost awash as we made the hard pull back to our
good ship.

Captain Thomas declared it a "make and mend" day, giving our crew a
time of rest before the coming trial, and issued a double spirit ration.
Great tales were swapped on the maindeck as we made Southing under easy
sail. Jones told his yarn about raiding the English on the USS
Enterprise, while his mate Wells spoke of surviving the defeat of the
USS Argus. And then, by popular demand, old First Mate Bush told of the
greatest battle any of us had ever seen, when he had served the English
Crown at the Nile. Once again, he regaled us with the crash of cannon as
whole fleets fired broadsides, cannon smoke so thick and dense that it
took minutes to clear, and the mighty, mighty explosion of the world's
largest warship. Bush had been wounded by debris from the famous blast,
an old statue that had hit him in the head at it fell from its dizzying
height. When he had recovered, a crewmate had given it to him as a
keepsake, and it had been with him ever since.

I had never heard that part before. Could I see it, I asked?

He had smiled, well lubricated by Kentucky's finest export, and brought
it up from belowdecks for me. "Just a little statue", he explained
modestly. "Not gold or anything valuable, like."

I examined it carefully. It was of a dog-headed person, sort of.
"What's it mean?" I asked.

"It means I 'ad me a bloody sore noggin!" he said uproariously, and all
the men laughed as I blushed. I was only 13, and it seems I was always
being reminded of it...

About then, Mrs Thomas (who worked as cook for our little crew) called
me to the mess to help her with some special task. I hated being called
away from the men at first, but then Mrs, Thomas put a cup of iced
lemonade in my hand. What a rare delight! Only the richest men of Boston
enjoyed iced drinks in the heat...

There was a price of course, though it was one I gladly paid. With a
marlin-spike I was put to work cracking more ice into cup-sized pieces
for the rest of the crew. This went quickly at first, until I hit
something hard.

A rock?

Indeed it was. What an extraordinary thing! How had a rock found it's
way into a block of ice at sea? There are so many mysteries still in the
world! When the rest of the crew came for their share, I passed it
around. It was an ordinary sort of stone, reddish and a bit melted
looking. Jones noticed that it was almost the color and shape of Bush's
little statue.

"Right!" Bush responded. "Two rocks on the whole bloody ship, and
they're just alike! Oops, sorry about the bad word, Ma'am."

Mrs. Thomas smiled, and everyone relaxed. No one wanted her to be mad.

"You know," Bush continued, "I used to do a bit of scrimshaw. Can I
have that stone, Carey? I've a mind to see if I can carve it."

"Certainly," I replied. I had no use for it, after all.

The next day, the storms began.

A sailor needs no descriptions of the storms of Cape Horn, so I won't
even try. Suffice it to say that there was wind, and there was more
wind, and then there were gales and vortexes and sheer hurricane blasts.
"Sciver" was well founded, yet all of us found constant employment at
the pumps as we beat relentlessly to windward in the teeth of all the
bad weather in the world. It being my first time, I'd have been
frightened to death without the strength of the crew and my solid, sure
belief in my Captain and my God. It was at the height of the worst
storm, waves seemingly running as high as the mainmast, that it began.

Bush dropped his speaking trumpet, and began to howl in agony.

We got the suffering sailor below right away, of course, Mrs. Thomas
establishing him in the galley. Like most merchantmen, we were a pretty
tight lot regardless of rank (the Captain excepted, of course!) and
lots of us wanted to visit when the weather allowed us a few minutes
below. But whatever the sickness was, it was very bad because Mrs Thomas
kept us cleared out, and all we could judge by were our mate's screams
through the hatchways...

Screams that sometimes sounded inhuman.

Finally, Mrs Thomas sent for me, and I went below at a run. She met me
outside the sickroom, and gave very strict instructions. I was to get
the Captain, get him now, and brook no delay.

I had never seen her so serious. "Yes'm!" I said, and performed my
mission.

He came immediately of course- even Captains learn that they are no
longer in full command after marriage, I've been told. She met us
outside again, and had me wait while her husband visited the howling
sick man. Presently he emerged, white-faced, and stood a moment outside
the galley door.

Even I could read the naked horror on his features.

"Sir?" I asked.

But before he could reply, he was cut off by a new fit of howling, a
fit that was more demonic than anything that had gone before. The
Captain's eyes closed, and he shuddered as he collapsed against the
bulkhead. I rushed over and grasped his arm.

He was feverish, as bad as Bush had been...

I tried to rouse him, but my attempts only sufficed to bring Mrs.
Thomas to my aid. Weeping, she had me haul her husband into the
improvised hospital, using the ship's motion to help lift him onto the
tabletop that would become his sickbed. Then, I discreetly passed the
word to our second officer, a man named Martinez, that I thought he was
in command.

I didn't tell him that I had seen the shape under Bush's sheets, and
that it was no longer human...

The storms stayed our main enemy, of course. With the sea raging like a
mad thing all around you and the wind in your face clawing like a demon
there's not much time to think about things like sickness and howling
and who's Captain. Even when Bush died, Mrs. Thomas managed to wrap him
up so well that no one but me could tell what was wrong when we put him
over the side. The Captain being ill, no one objected to Mrs. Thomas
reading the service in his stead during a little lull when the wind
backed from a scream to a mere howl.

So no one was there when the Captain died, quietly and alone.

Martinez had never relished command. He was a weak leader, and knew it.
His primary function had been to serve as a translator in California,
and his skills were more in business dealings than in ship handling,
though he was a passable navigator. He got us out of the Straits,
though, and into the wide Pacific.

While two more crewmen sickened.

Martinez had us hoist the "yellow Q", international code for a plague
ship. No crew is ever happy as long as that pennon flies, and the men of
the "Sciver" were no exception. Tensions ran high as former lifelong
friends fought and bickered, while Martinez struggled to maintain
discipline. Our next burial was the result of a knife-fight, not the
Fever...

Things got worse even after the two fever victims recovered. By then
seven others were sick, and the still-grieving Mrs. Thomas had been
forced to ask for my full-time help as an assistant. These seven beget
four more, and even as two of the seven died one of the four began
howling and screaming, much like Bush...

Almost half the crew was sick of a strange, often deadly disease, and
the Captain was weak. Add to that mindless shouts of pain from
belowdecks all day and all night and, well...

It was done in a very respectful way. Jones, oldest of the men, came
forward very politely to Captain Martinez and asked him to make for the
nearest port. Martinez replied that he was bound not to do so by the
ship's owners, and that even if he did the vessel would be quarantined
until the Fever ran its course anyway. So the men wore ship without
orders, lowered the yellow pennon and asked Martinez to please stay in
his cabin. A way would be found to work things out if he cooperated...

Thus goes mutiny among old shipmates.

Mrs. Thomas and I were too busy to care. The sick were producing vast
quantities of the most disgusting substances imaginable, and we held
hands and prayed over the victims every spare moment, hoping God could
hear us over the intermittent shouts of the raving crewman. By this
time, Mrs. Thomas had long since despaired of keeping anything from me,
and I watched in utter fascination as the skin of the unfortunate soul
seemed to thicken, his neck to elongate, and his arms and legs to
shorten. It was an evil sight- we prayed over him often, wondering what
his special sin was among the rest our offenses.

We were praying thus when finally, Mrs. Thomas collapsed over the sick
man.

She too was burning with the Fever...

I had been trying to act the part of a man, and succeeded up until
then, I suppose. But losing Mrs. Thomas frightened me beyond all reason,
beyond all pretensions of manhood. I'm afraid that I was a boy again as
I burst out of the reeking galley to find Jones walking the quarterdeck,
and sobbingly told him what had happened. Immediately he came below with
me, to view the spectacle of our beloved lady lying collapsed over a
body that was no longer human.

In my grief and fear, I had forgotten that not everyone knew...

Immediately, Jones became extremely agitated. He had been drinking the
cargo, as had the rest of the crew since Martinez had been removed from
command, and was somewhat incapacitated. Excitedly he returned to the
deck, and called all hands one by one to visit the galley where I
solemnly showed them their hairless, transforming shipmate. Each of them
reacted strongly in their own way, but all the methods seemed to involve
heavy drinking...

That night, a ship's council was held. Even Martinez was invited, after
being shown the horrid thing in the galley and given strong drink
afterwards. And indeed it was he who offered the solution.

"Amigos mio," he began, then restarted, "My old friends. Much that is
terrible has happened on this voyage. We are sailors. We are used to the
idea of death by drowning, or accident, or even loathsome disease. But
what lies below decks, what was once our friend and shipmate... it is
the work of the Devil!"

The crew murmured its agreement.

"In Spain, my old country, we had priests who dealt with this sort of
thing often. Witches, Jews, devil-worshipers. None are here,
regrettably. However, I do know one thing about their methods..."

You could have cut the silence with a knife. Finally, Jones spoke.
"Tell us."

"Fire is the key. We must burn the evil."

There was a lot of argument after that. But no other plan emerged.

Thus it came to pass that in the gathering darkness, the badly
frightened crew of the "Mark van Sciver" prepared to burn one of their
own messmates alive...

Preparations were done by dawn. The inert body of the wretched victim,
now much larger than it had ever been before the demons came upon it,
was hauled out into the morning half-light and deposited on deck. A raft
had been prepared for the holocaust- you can't have a big fire safely on
a wooden ship- and with care and Bible readings the seaman was carefully
lashed into place among the kindling. He moaned a bit from time to time,
the rumbling being far too deep and profound to be fully human, but only
responded feebly to the tightening of the ropes. At the last minute I
added the statue that had meant so much to Bush, the first victim, and
his partially completed duplicate carving. Who knew where the evil had
come from? A whip was reeved and the capstan turned in unusual silence
as the men heaved their mate and his raft over the side. Below, two men
waited in the ship's boat with flint and tinder.

Then, with a flourish the deed was done. In the boat tinder came to
life, and a tiny fire was nurtured. This was transferred to the raft,
whose tarry boards and smeared lard accepted the gift of flame eagerly.
Jones read loudly a verse from Revelations about the Beast while the
smoke blossomed forth and the flames grew in intensity. A column of
blackness began to form, evil dark smoke that we all hoped would carry
away the sickness-demon so that the rest of us could live...

It was about then that Seaman Abel Finn awoke, and screamed his agony
to the world.

The sound was horrible, as pain wracked the inhuman thing. Jones
reminded us that it was a demon we heard dying, not a human, so we were
able to harden our hearts and stay firm. But still it was difficult-
people are not meant to just stand by and watch when another creature is
in agony.

But we can manage it.

Then the demon transformed itself further yet, still screaming at it's
tormentors. It grew suddenly and hugely, with frightening speed. The
raft was crushed, its tough timbers broken asunder like toys. The neck
lengthened hugely, the body flattened, the arms and legs became
paddle-like fins. A tail as long as the "Sciver" emerged, and teeth like
cutlasses grew into the evilly grinning mouth.

The demon had been far more powerful than we knew. It had become a sea
monster. The stuff of legends...

Enraged, it attacked viciously, plucking the two poor souls from the
ship's boat first and consuming them in a single bite. Then, it turned
it's attention to the "Sciver" herself, beating our vessel into a wreck
with tail and clublike head. Musketry just enraged the beast further,
and presently, inevitably, we sank.

By the grace of God I made it to the still-floating boat, where by
laying quietly I managed to escape notice and prolong my miserable
existence a few more wretched hours. I live only to write this warning,
using the paper left over from lighting the raft. When it is done, I
will wrap it as best I can and pray that it comes again to the notice of
humanity, so that our fates may be known. Then, there being absolutely
no hope for me, I will drown myself.

For the evil must already be in me. I have a fever, you see. And I
prefer a sailor's death to possession by a demon from within...

User:Phil Geusz/Anubis - Revision history

Bryan: User:Rabbit/Anubis moved to User:Phil Geusz/Anubis: requested username change

Bryan: Phil gave permission on the TSA-Talk mailing list to copy over his stories from the TSA, so I'm copying this text from http://tsa.transform.to/furry/anubis.html