Read The Monster Hunter Online
Authors: Kit Cox
The Monster Hunter (10 page)
Finally he spotted the prize of the collection, a fully articulated human skeleton lounging in one corner.
Ben was wondering whether all schools were this well stocked when Nanny Belle came back into the room, a look of annoyance on her face. She snatched up a bowl of what looked like dried and fresh fruit and left the room again. Ben wondered momentarily what kind of bird had a diet of fruit, but then guessed that a lot of them must eat berries in the wild â it was only captivity that turned them to a boring life of dull seeds.
As he watched Nanny Belle leave again, he noticed the books on her desk. To most people it would just have looked like an untidy mess, but Ben quickly spotted that they were the selfsame tomes, works and field guides that he had been looking at when interrupted by the Nanny in the classroom below. The map of the Whitgate area was also laid out, weighted at the corners. Afraid to leave the chair, he was stretching to get a closer look when Nanny Belle re-entered the room. He sat upright in the chair, trying to give the impression he hadn't been spying. She however followed where his eyes had been looking and smiled.
âI was trying to work out where you might have gone,' she said with kindness in her voice.
âI went to the quarry. I thought you had shown it to me on the map.' Ben felt the conversation was getting surreal; he still wasn't sure if that's what his tutor had been hinting at.
Nanny Belle smiled. âClever boy, I was hoping you'd work out where they'd gone. The thing is I was trying to find out where you'd gone
afterwards
.'
âI just ran,' he said, suddenly realising that it would seem like the action of a coward.
Nanny Belle smiled again and he could see the sympathy in
her eyes. He was glad that her look was neither patronising nor mocking but heartfelt. She was about to talk again when there was a knock at her door.
âHold that thought,' she said and descended the flight of stairs that led to the classroom. She opened it and he heard the deep tones of Mr Reed for a moment before the door closed behind her as the adults continued their conversation in the quiet of the classroom. Ben tried to work out what the muffled voices were saying but he could only work out when a male or female voice was talking rather than the actual conversation.
He rubbed his ear again and took in the rest of the room. It was actually quite simple if you removed the school stuff. The desk at which the books were laid out was an exact replica of the one Nanny Belle sat behind in the classroom below. The fire place was part of the same chimney breast that served this part of the house and the fire was lit but with a flame that simply warmed the room and the mantle had a clock upon it that read two fifteen. The day it seemed had really gotten away from Ben since he had woken up in the Gypsy caravan. Since that early misty morning in the woods he had caught and killed the land lobster with Rosalie, returned to the orphanage to be interrogated and had his first fight. The one thing he hadn't done was eaten and he could feel his stomach getting ready to growl, he remembered the hard cob in his pocket but then thought better of it. He distracted himself by looking around the room again but as he couldn't leave the chair the only other object of note was a travelling trunk. It was heavy and battered and looked as if it had been places, but the travel labels folks seemed to love to leave on (as a boastful sign of where the owner had been) had all been removed - not carefully, as if the look of the trunk was important, but simply torn off, as if covering one's tracks. The
fact the case actually wasn't Nanny Belle's was clear from the initials elegantly engraved above the handle â a simple âJ.U' in gold leaf â the sole extravagance of the whole piece. What Ben liked about the trunk most was that the top was curved, giving it the look of a pirate's treasure chest. At that moment Nanny Belle returned to the room, her face concerned.
She pulled up another chair and sat down before Ben.
âI have some bad news, I'm afraid.' Ben really didn't know what to expect, so he just left the nanny to talk. âIt seems that the other children are refusing to share a room with you.' Ben was shocked
âBut I didn't even start the fight,' he blurted.
âI know â even they have said that Christian hit you first. Some of them are, however, accusing you of killing their pet. A few are quite upset and the others are sticking by them.'
âIt wasn't a badger!' said Ben, suddenly realising he needed to defend himself â if anyone was to listen to him it was going to be Nanny Belle.
âI kind of gathered that, but as you didn't correct Constable Bobbins I realised you didn't want to share what it actually was that you despatched.' She waited for a second before adding, âSo, do you want to fill me in on what it was that the children thought was a companion but you believed to be ⦠otherwise?'
Ben took a breath. âI don't really know what it was.' He looked into Nanny Belle's eyes. âRosalie said it was a Land Lobster.'
âAnd what do you think it was?' It was clever how Nanny Belle had realised that Ben wasn't convinced by Rosalie's definition of the beast, even though he had clearly stated that he didn't know.
âI think there are monsters in the world and we don't talk about them. I think it wasn't a companion and it was hurting the
others and making them sick. I think what I did was right.' Ben was aware that a level of determination or anger had entered his voice, so he stopped talking because he didn't want the nanny to think he was angry at her.
Nanny Belle simply sat back in the chair, suddenly very serious and adult. She looked at Ben for a long time until he felt slightly uncomfortable under her gaze but rather than hanging his head he fixed his eyes upon hers. He knew he was right and didn't want to turn away from the truth.
âMonsters?'
The word seemed to hang in the air and he expected to receive a lecture about reading too many books. Nanny Belle, however, seemed to be thinking. She stood up, moved to her desk and started packing away the mess of books and maps before speaking again.
âThe children will take a time to forget but they will forget. I think for now we shall make you a space in this study to call your room. I have a campaign bed I can put up. When the children have moved on, we will let you back into the dorm but it won't be easy at first.' She looked at Ben. âBut I'm guessing it hasn't been that easy anyway. You will, of course, still be with the others for lessons and food, so you won't be isolated, but you will only be in their company with an adult for the time being.' She was now behind the desk and opened up a drawer and removed a key, which she handed to Ben. âI will go and tell Mrs Reed what is to happen. The trunk over there is my brother's.' She pointed to the chest. âHe takes it on expeditions with him but he has left it in my care. I am pretty convinced that he will have a camp bed in there. For tonight you can use that and we shall see about making the study more bedroom like tomorrow.'
She smoothed down her long skirt, as if she was putting the
final details to her plan. âRight, you find yourself a bed. I'm going to talk to Mrs Reed.' And without another word she swept from the room.
Ben looked at the truck and got up from the chair for the first time. The key was iron and heavy and seemed overly large for its job but it fitted the lock well and the chest opened. The lid was heavy and Ben wondered whether such a weighty chest was a sensible option when travelling.
He raised it with reverence and was surprised to be met by a warm spicy smell rather than a scent of mothballs or stale air. The lid was heavy because strong leather straps held smaller items securely in place. The main body of the trunk was deep and held lots more things neatly wrapped in sensible cloth. Ben couldn't be sure but some of the shapes appeared to be weapons and he moved them carefully aside, having seen the camp bed quite low down. The long roll of the canvas bed and its folded wooden frame were beneath the only non-wrapped item in the trunk, a thick notebook that had been bound in rough leather and sealed with a metal clasp. On the front of the book, held in place by the heavy leather and strong stitches, was a small sculpted head of an Arabian man. Ben ran his fingers over the face, which reminded him of his favourite book of tales, and wondered what lay inside this interesting journal. He, however, felt like a trespasser; his instructions, after all, were only to get the bed. Nanny Belle had trusted him. He put the book aside and removed the item he was instructed to retrieve, before closing the heavy lid and then locking the large trunk.
By the time Nanny Belle returned he had worked out the complicated travel bed and had set it up in a corner of the room. In her arms she carried some bedding and also Ben's kitbag, which she had packed with his simple possessions.
âAh! Well done, Benjamin. I knew you were a clever lad. I can never put those up.' She walked over. âI have some blankets and a pillow for you and I brought your clothes⦠We will sort things out better tomorrow, though.'
Ben smiled as his stomach grumbled, giving away his hunger.
âYes, we need to get you fed, too.'
Nanny Belle was the perfect host, bringing up a meal for each of them to eat at the desk, while asking Ben questions about Ceylon and his mother. Talking about his mother with someone who really wanted to hear was the best cure for the sadness the day had instilled in his heart. So the other children didn't want him around, but the last two nights he felt like he had spent them with friends.
Eventually Nanny Belle had retired to her rooms above.
âGoodnight, young man. I know a strange room is hard to settle in. Feel free to read any of the books in here to help you sleep.' And with this she had gone, though from time to time he would hear the occasional sound of her feet moving in the room above.
Ben readied himself for bed and slipped beneath the blanket, taking his copy of
The Arabian Nights
from his kitbag. Before he opened it, his mind wandered back to the book in the trunk and wished he could read it. He smiled as Nanny Belle's parting words came flooding back: âFeel free to read any of the books in here.'
He ran across the room in his bare feet and nightshirt to the desk, retrieved the key and listened to make sure that he hadn't disturbed Nanny Belle above. Then he went over to the trunk that looked even more like a pirate chest now as he unlocked it and removed the coveted treasure.
Back at his bed he held the book proudly in his hands and prepared for a good read.
Knowledge
B
eing settled in his temporary bed with a new book was exciting â despite the situation Ben found himself in, he had a lot to be thankful for. He had a new friend in Rosalie, Nanny Belle was turning out to be a very good guardian, and now he also had a room to himself, too!
He raised the unusual book to his nose and sniffed the leather cover. It smelt warm with a smell of the trunk in which it was stored, a mixture of spice, leather and wood.
The face stitched on the front cover was made of a light, intricately carved resin and wore a look of benevolent wisdom. The face was clearly that of a Bedouin nomad, turbaned with a bearded face and long straight nose. The clasp of the book was simple and purely kept it closed rather than locked, so Ben unclipped the book and turned to the first yellow page. There he was instantly met by the neat black handwriting of its owner. The page simply read:
Notes from the Field
M
AJOR
J
ACK
U
NION
All around the handwritten title were intricate pencil sketches of various flora and fauna, though nothing appeared familiar to Ben's eyes. He was aware that this was not to be a storybook but instead a journal of the owner's exploits into whatever he did and for a moment Ben's heart sank. He decided to flick through the book and get a feel for it before continuing; after all, he still had time to change his mind and read his own book.
As his fingers flicked through the pages, he was happy to notice that the neat handwriting was separated by the pencil pictures of a skilled artist. He wasn't pleased, however, to see that there were lots of pages devoid of both writing and art. This was apparently down to the author's desire to keep things alphabetical. Ben was about to put the book down when he passed over a picture that made him come to a standstill and slowly flick back to the artwork. The pencil sketches had been the same as the ones in all the field guides Ben had read while at the school: details of outstanding features around a fully realised picture of the studied animal. The picture in front of him made his heart beat faster and turned his mouth dry. For a moment he wondered whether he should call Nanny Belle's name to show her his discovery, but his own curiosity got the better of him.
Even if minor details appeared a little different â the tail seemed more like the stinger of a scorpion â the creature on the page was without doubt the land lobster that only that morning Rosalie and he had killed on the island. Clearly written above it was the word âPsammead'. Ben read on:
Psammead
It is getting to be widely accepted by the zoological community at large that life on Earth started within the vast oceans of the planet and it is believed by a few more that some creatures may even have returned to the waves having become too big for the land. It has often caused people to speculate that some creatures must therefore be somewhere in between the two processes, and of course to see creatures escaping their watery homes you don't need to look much further than the lung fish, mud skippers and, in a lot of cases, the humble frog. Some of the creatures that slip through the net, however, are the Ghoti and the less frequently encountered Psammead.
Description
The Psammead, or Sand Fairy, is around the size of a large terrier and can range in colour from light sand to a deep blue/purple. It has a fleshy skin with no natural protection beyond body fur to allow some element of warmth in colder climates.
Its body shape is somewhat similar to that of a rugby ball stood on its end with the lower point flattened into a tail like the fan of a lobster. This tail can be pulled into a tube to allow the creature's syringe-like proboscis to emerge protected, directly from its gut rather than its head.
From the side of the creature's body jut six thin legs, muscled like those of a field hare, three on either side of the body, and above these the stronger digging
limbs. These digging limbs end in a very hard, single semicircular claw.
The head is the strangest element of the creature and gives the largest nod to its watery lineage. It is a fairly misshapen sphere, small in size. It has neither nose nor mouth, but has oval, almost goat-like eyes that the creature pushes up on horns like a snail and which it can move independently, giving it good all-round vision.
On the sides of the head are two triangular-shaped gills, which it uses to take in its air quite happily when out of water. The gills are a personal filter to protect it from its own defence mechanisms.
Un-armoured, the Psammead is vulnerable to most land-based predators and therefore has developed two ways of protecting itself. The first is its nest or hide, in which it spends most of its life. The nest is a deep, eight- to ten-foot shaft that it digs in soft rock like sandstone or chalk and fills with loose gravel or stones. The Psammead then simply waits in the nest sensing the vibrations of potential prey; the soft rock coupled with the shaft of loose stones means the slightest of movement will alert the creature. Once alerted, it will surface and assess whether its prey is warm blooded or simply a fallen object. If the former, it will fill its chest sack with a smoke that it then disperses through membranes located all over its body. The smoke is a powerful sedative and this is why the creature breathes through gills â for the sedative is also a powerfully addictive hallucinogen. When it has gassed its prey, it will dig down back into its pit to protect itself while the gas takes effect and will emerge to feed only a little later. It does this by
sticking its proboscis into any soft part of the prey and breaks down fat and muscle cells to drink.
The mating habits and numbers of Psammead are difficult to judge due to the creature's underground life, but excavated nests have revealed clutches of unfertilised eggs, suggesting females lay their eggs like frogs or sea creatures and need a male to fertilise them.
Habitat
The Psammead can be found in soft rock areas of sandstone or chalk, often not far away from the sea but never along a floodable shoreline or in marshy areas. Psammead habitats are often found high above an area's water table and in places where birds or other animals often pass by, giving it good food supplies.
Threat
The Psammead is a threat to the British Empire due to its smoke and feeding routine. A Psammead is not a big eater and small meals often seem to service it better. The smoke it uses for knocking out its prey is a hallucinogen and addictive. Because of this, larger prey will actually feel drawn back to the spot so that the creature is able to feed again. In fact it is likely a Psammead will have half a dozen larger prey that regularly return to be fed upon. Humans who have succumbed to the smoke have told stories of dream-like visions in which all their desires are met. The smoke is actually not harmful at all and the effects of inhalation will pass in an hour. However, this gives plenty of time for the creature to feed and retreat to its nest again, and it is herein that lies the threat. The
chemical it pumps into the body to break down fat and muscle cells is poisonous and a sufficient number of doses produces prolonged vomiting and even death. Cattle that are infected if slaughtered will be able to pass this toxin on to anyone who eats the meat.
Hunting
It is difficult to hunt a creature that remains beneath ground, so it is more a case of finding the nests and luring them out. This can be done in two ways. One is to approach the nest and allow your vibrations to bring it to the surface; this will work only if the Psammead is hungry. A Psammead may take up to six large regular prey and will become familiar with their vibrations, so if you are approaching a nest site for a Psammead with an already full moving larder it will not surface. The second way is to flush them out. The tunnels can be prone to flooding and at times of heavy rain the Psammead can be seen out in the downpour avoiding the watery depths of their tunnels and will only return when they are dry (something that happens fast in soft rock areas). Thus, you can lure them out by slowly pouring water into their nests to simulate rain â as little as a large bucket of water will do the trick.
When hunting the Psammead, your mouth and nose needs to be protected from the smoke; a simple charcoal filter across the face can protect you. If you do not have a charcoal filter, temporary ones are easily made from crushing charcoal between two large strips of material, soaking the material in water or alcohol and wrapping it about your face to cover your mouth and nose.
As the Psammead is fairly vulnerable above ground, most ways of despatching prey are viable such as a rifle or, as preferred by the aboriginals who encounter the creatures, a spear. I actually find a spear to be more useful as you can pin the creature above ground and make sure that it is actually dead. As a final precaution it is advisable to empty a nest of gravel to make sure the area is clear or just to prevent a new creature moving in.
Personal account
I have had many occasions to hunt the Psammead, living so close as I do to the county of Kent which, with its mixture of sand and chalk, is an ideal habitat. They are also an easy kill. Left alone, I fear the area could easily become overrun with the creatures. I also like to educate new âmonster hunters' by using easier prey such as the Psammead as there is very little that can go wrong. It was in fact the first monster hunt I ever took my batman, Kent, upon. It seemed fitting to take the man to his namesake county and also to test his mettle on an easy kill.
I had been alerted by the Nesbit family to three possible Psammead sites in Kent. The Nesbits had been one of those families who had been very helpful in the work we did for the Crown. A lot of our maps that we used to find possible hunting grounds or habitats had been drawn by Anthony Nesbit, who was a land surveyor who would draw very accurate maps of the landscape and geology. So it was that I gave my batman â whom I shall hereafter call James, to avoid confusion with the county we were in â one of these maps and the letter from Mr
Nesbit's granddaughter who had picked up a few worrying accounts of Psammead activity in the press and by word of mouth.
James was, I think, happy to be holding the reins in this particular hunt and I told him that, while I would be his backup, the actual planning and execution were to be his.
James prepared our equipment well, if not perfectly. We had very good-quality leather filter masks to wear and he also decided that we should both wear sturdy knee-high boots. I later found out this was because he thought the digging claws of the Psammead might be used as defensive weapons (though I will say that in all my time flushing out and hunting the creatures I have never know any of them to do such a thing).
He chose the only two viable locations of the three and we set off. I was allowed to take my gun (as I said, I prefer a spear on this hunts but it was James's call) while he took his trusted bow.
The first site stood in a field of cattle, not far from the hop farms of one of the larger brewers, and before us stood the South Downs, those lovely green rolling hills upon which lots of Neolithic standing stones can be found. This is a famously chalky area â even from the field we were in we could see the white paths of chalk that had been worn into the green grass by human beings.
The cattle farmer had been talking about cattle falling ill and how, even with his skill with the beasts, he had not been able to work out why. With the farmer's permission we searched the fields. (My tip: If you are
ever on a farmer's land for a hunt ask permission. It is a courtesy, after all, as we have the weight of the Crown to back up our demands, but more importantly you don't want to be explaining to a shotgun owner why you are on his land without permission).
It was easy to see where the cattle went each day as there was a well-worn track from their shed to the field and back again but for all our searching we discovered nothing. I was the one who noticed the stray cow in another field but I waited until James saw it rather than pointing it out. We had been searching in the wrong field! The cows had simply been moved to pastures new to keep them in fresh grass; our Psammead, of course, was in the old field. Luckily for us the addictive quality of its smoke had ensured that one of its regular prey had broken free of the field we were in and had headed like a bloodhound back to the nest where it could get its next dose of smoke.
We were walking towards the cow when suddenly it collapsed. I was about to run forward when James put his arm across my chest. He strung his bow and waited and then, sure enough, the Psammead returned to feed. Now I have never been good with a bow and arrow, but James had picked up a few skills from the American Indians and I was impressed to see him put not one but two arrows in the feeding creature.
We then spent an hour digging out the creature's nest and were glad to find it clean of others of its kind. We informed the farmer that the problem had been dealt with, but we recommended that the ill cows were not used for their milk for a while, perhaps a month or two.
On being asked what the problem had been, we blamed badgers and he seemed to accept that without question.
James was all up for going home but I reminded him that we still had another site to visit. The next possible Psammead site wasn't that far away and James was back in the master's seat while I followed behind with the body of the dead Psammead in my backpack, as we would have to dispose of it somehow.
As we approached the potential site, we could see sand martins flying around, giving us an indication that the area was at least geologically correct. The great sandstone wall before us was pockmarked by the many nest holes the sand martins dug and returned to each year. We went on to the top of the mound and looked around for a nest but could not find one even after much searching. Eventually the light failed and we had to head back to our accommodation. It was on the way back, however, that James remarked on the thick fog that was drifting towards us and I told him to put on his mask. I think I must have got some of the smoke in my lungs as I felt woolly-headed for a while as if I had drunk a good few ales, but we used the cloud to locate the nest. It was almost completely hidden beneath a holly bush and the surrounding ground was gravel strewn making the gravel-filled nest hard to spot. Two rabbits lay unconscious, victims of the smoke. We waited for a moment and were quickly rewarded by the appearance of a Psammead. It was a big one with hard-looking wrinkled skin, and so was probably quite an old one. As James had packed his bow, I despatched it with my pistol.
We did learn a valuable lesson that night about hunting Psammead: they aren't reliant on light to see by and are clearly happy to pick off nocturnal passers-by as well as day time visitors. (My tip: If you know you have Psammead in an area clear the suspected hunting ground before nightfall: you may not be as lucky as we were and fall foul to one when your vision is impaired.)
We took the body with us but failed to dig up the nest as we were both rather groggy and confused after even a little inhalation of the smoke. I, however, have not heard of any more reports from this area, so I have to assume that the nest was clean.
