Sacrifices

Doctor Douglas Watt looked up from his desk as his first patient came into his room.

“Good morning Mrs Heskith,” Douglas said rising to his feet to usher the old lady in. “How are we feeling this morning?”

“Oh, doctor,” wailed Mrs Heskith. “It’s me lumbago. It’s playing up something cruel!”

Doctor Watt grimaced behind the old lady’s back. Oh Lord, he thought. How many hours till I start my holiday?

The morning surgery went by quickly with its long list of ailments. Rheumatism, sickness, diahorroea, flu jags and of course, the inevitable case of ‘I just feel out of sorts, Doctor’.

Soon, it was over and Mrs Jennings, the office manager came in to collect the patients’ files.

“Well, Douglas, you’ll want to get away. When does your plane leave?”

“Ah, Gloria, I was just daydreaming. The plane leaves at five o’clock and hopefully arrives at Joball four hours later. I just can’t wait. Sand, sea, and sangria, what more could a man ask for?”

“You just watch out that you don’t bring any strange, exotic bugs back with you,” admonished Gloria, wagging her finger at him. “I need you back here, ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’, in two weeks.”

Douglas stood up and raising his right hand said loudly, “I promise that I will behave myself.”

Gloria gave a smile and left the room humming the tune to the song ‘That’ll Be the Day’.

The plane roared down the runway at Heathrow and Douglas felt as he always felt at times like this – scared!

I hate these bits, the takeoff and the landing, he thought. Don’t mind the bit between though.

The plane gave a lurch and suddenly they were up in the air and the air hostesses were moving down the aisle giving out drinks.

Douglas must have fallen asleep for he found himself experiencing a very pleasant dream, or rather it began pleasantly enough, but the end was not anything he would have wanted.

The scene was a hotel room somewhere that he did not recognise. It was very warm and the maid or someone had left the window open. The net curtains moved in and out like someone breathing and Douglas could feel the cool breeze.

The room was very well furnished and everything looked very expensive. Oil paintings hung on the wall and ornate light fixtures gleamed brightly.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Douglas moved across the room to open it. As he neared the door a feeling of terror suddenly overcame him. It was if he instinctively knew that there was something, which would harm him, on the other side of the door! He stepped back quickly and searched the room with his eyes, to find somewhere to hide, but as he deliberated the door suddenly burst in towards him and a darkness poured into the room, engulfing him totally!

“Sir! Sir!” a voice sounded insistently, waking him from his nightmare. “You’re just having a bad dream. Wake up please!”

One of the air hostesses was gently shaking him by the shoulder and Douglas realised where he was.

“I am sorry,” he said, blushing. “ It was so real.”

After a stiff drink Douglas felt a little better, but he found it hard to shake off the feeling of misgiving that the dream had engendered. He gave a little shiver as he looked out of the aircraft’s window at the large fluffy clouds that surrounded them.

I must be more in need of a holiday, than I thought I was, he thought.

As the taxi moved through the little houses and shops that made up Tija, the main village on the island of Joball, Douglas felt all the tension of the flight drift away. He was eager to get to his hotel, unpack and get down on the beach for some much needed ‘R&R’. The sun was very hot and a gentle breeze moved the branches in the tall eucalyptus trees. The setting was idyllic and Douglas knew that here, he would get all the rest he needed.

The maid, a young dark eyed girl led him to his room in the hotel. As they climbed the carpeted staircase Douglas looked about him at the paintings and photographs that hung on the walls.

“It seems a very popular place,” he said to the maid. “Is this the busiest time for you?”

“Oh no,” replied the girl. “This is sort of ‘off season’. In fact we will be closing the hotel down in three weeks time. The weather will turn stormy soon and visitors tend not to come then.”

“That’s a pity for it is a lovely little island,” Douglas said. “Bur, I suppose you will all get a holiday yourselves then.”

As Douglas stepped into his room, he felt a slight pang of fear, when he recalled his dream on the aircraft. But, upon looking about him, he realised that this was not the room of his nightmare. He breathed a sigh of relief.

In fact, the room resembled several of the rooms that he had stayed in, during past holidays. It was furnished in a utilitarian fashion; wardrobe, bed, writing desk and ‘en suite’ bathroom. It was not as if he intended living in his hotel room!

Next day, Douglas spread his towel on the sand and rigged up his windbreak or suntrap as it was known as nowadays.

The beach wasn’t very busy and Douglas had had his pick for spots to sunbathe. He remembered what the maid had said about the resort closing down in three weeks and tried to imagine the beach being pounded by angry surf brought on by a storm.

Lying down on his towel, he opened the detective novel that he had brought with him. It was the latest in a series of crime stories by this author and Douglas had found the previous titles very exciting to read.

As the day passed and the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, Douglas realised that he had had enough heat for the day. No point overdoing it, he thought. It would just be like me to get sunstroke on my first day. It was time to sit on the hotel’s veranda and sip some cool drinks. He might be able to have a chat with some of the other visitors.

It was at the point when he was packing up he noticed a little figure moving slowly up the beach towards him. As the figure got closer, Douglas realised that he was a little boy and he was stopping to talk to some of the other sunbathers on the beach. In his hand he held a bag and what looked like a notebook.

As he approached Douglas he raised his head and Douglas saw, with a start, that the boy only had one eye. The other had been rather crudely sewn shut.

“Excuse me mister,” began the boy politely. “Do you want to go on a tour to the catacombs?”

“What…?” stammered Douglas rather taken aback by the boy’s disfigurement. “What happened to your face, son?”

The boy laughed and raised his hand to the injury. “I had an accident. The local doctor fixed it for me.”

“Not very well,” retorted Douglas angrily. “You really need plastic surgery.”

Looking down at the ground, the boy stammered,” my family cannot afford it, but it is ok. I can see just fine.”

Feeling a little ashamed of himself for embarrassing the lad he asked, “what was the trip you are collecting names for?”

“The catacombs mister,” the boy replied. “My father runs a bus to them. It doesn’t cost much.”

Douglas put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Put me down on your list. When does it leave?”

The boy pocketed the money and as Douglas spelt his name out, carefully wrote it down on his list. “Outside your hotel at three o’clock mister,” he said as he turned and made his way up the beach.

The bus had seen better days and Douglas wondered how far it was to the catacombs and whether the rusty vehicle would make it.

A few other residents from the hotel boarded after Douglas and as they took their seats nodded politely to him.

All at once a large, fat man got onboard. He was dressed in a vest and jeans and on his feet he wore flipflops. He was missing a hand and in its place was an evil looking hook.

Looking down the bus’ interior, he counted heads. “You all for the catacombs?” he shouted and upon receiving positive replies, collapsed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The route was by a cliff path which gave the passengers beautiful, if terrifying glimpses of the sea and coastline far below. The path itself was strewn with rocks and various bits of debris, but the physically challenged, bus driver drove faultlessly and soon the bus was making its way inland. The terrain was very rocky and the few visible mountain peaks looked volcanic in origin. The vegetation was very stunted up there unlike the more lush trees and bushes in Tiga. Skeletal trees stood about like spectres and tumbleweed blew about the road.

The approach to the catacombs was situated in a ravine and the path down was quite steep. The burial site had been chiselled out of the rock and must have taken many months to carry out with primitive tools. A wild, dusty wind howled through the rocky cleft plucking at our clothes.

Seven passengers, including Douglas, got off the bus and were herded towards a wide cave like hole in the cliff face, by the driver. Oil lamps hung from the wall and once out of the sun, the atmosphere felt damp and cold. The air in the catacombs smelt dank and fetid like a month old corpse.

“You alright, mister?” asked the driver as he noticed Douglas looking a little shaken. “The trip down to the burial niches will not take too long.”

“How did you lose your hand?” asked Douglas, hoping he was not causing offence. “Was it an accident?”

The driver lifted the hook on the end of his arm and laughed. “We all must make sacrifices,” he said enigmatically. “Now, let us go and visit our ancestors.”

“But, your son… his injury?” Douglas began to say, but the driver ignored him and began to shepherd the visitors down the narrow passageway.

They seemed to descend for miles, but Douglas knew that the combination of the conditions and the claustrophobic feel to the place would tend to dilate time.

Soon crude drawings could be seen on the walls. Stick like figures with animals, some looking like cows and horses. Another drawing showed a figure lying on a stone block with what looked like blood coming from it.

Eventually large niches began to be seen in the walls. Within the holes brown bones could be seen mixed in with rags of clothing. Amongst the remains, Douglas could see bits of pottery, flint knives and beads.

Douglas got quite a fright when the driver whispered right by his ear, “the living give gifts to their dead ancestors, mister.”

On and on they went, niche after niche, some with skeletal remains, others with mouldering humps of carrion, long mummified.

The driver then raised his hand and announced to the visitors, “That is the end of the tour. We can go no further.”

Douglas could see that there was a large wooden door set into the wall behind where the driver stood. The wall had a large painting on it. It depicted a large wave approaching a crowd of stick like people who were standing with their hands raised. It was very old and some of the paint had flaked off.

“What is behind the door?” asked Douglas loudly. “Can’t we have a look?”

The driver raised his good hand and made a sign in front of his face. “No, it is private. No one is allowed inside. Now let us return to the surface.” He began ushering people up the passage.

Douglas hung back and concealed himself behind one of the rocky pillars. He had decided that he would look whatever the outcome. He hadn’t descended a dirty, old passage to be turned back at the last moment. He would look behind the door. I mean what can they do to me, thought Douglas, hang me?

The door creaked horribly as Douglas pushed it open. He looked up the passage in case the driver, upon hearing the shriek, realised what he was doing, but apart from the departing voices, he could hear nothing else.

Upon entering the area behind the door, Douglas was disappointed to see nothing more than a large stone block covered with rubbish and detritus. The atmosphere had a sickly, pungent small.

 The light from the oil lamps in the passage outside shone weakly into the chamber and it was not until Douglas was close up to the block that he realised what was covering its surface.

Hacked off arms, legs, fingers and toes lay rotting. Blow flies swarmed over the blackening flesh. Douglas felt his gorge rise and was sick on the floor. What the hell was this? he thought wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It looked like a butcher shop! Turning, his gaze fell again on the carrion as he made to leave the chamber, but the sight of several rotten eyeballs propped up on the bits of body, made his head swim and Douglas staggered back.

Clutching behind him he sought something to support him, when he felt a sharp pain in his hand. Warmth suddenly ran down his arm and he could hear liquid falling on the floor. He had cut himself and from the sound of it, he was losing copious amounts of blood.

Somehow he staggered through the door and began to run up the cramped passage.

He stopped partway to rip some of the mildewed rags out of a niche, to wrap round the wound, in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

Eventually he spotted the visitors being led by the driver; he screamed for them to help him and then collapsed on to the passage floor. Everything went black.

When Douglas regained consciousness, he found that he was lying on a stretcher in the reception area of his hotel. The concierge was kneeling by his side, looking very worried. “Doctor Watt! Doctor Watt! Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

Douglas opened his eyes and gave the hotel manager a rather sour looking smile. “So I made it back? Was it the driver of the bus who attended to my wounds? He raised his injured arm to see that it had been bandaged quite professionally.

“Yes,” replied the hotel manager, “he and some of the other visitors carried you out of the catacombs to the bus, where your condition was attended to.”

“I must thank them…” Douglas began to say, then again felt dizzy and lay back down.

“You will need attention, Dr Watt,” said the manager, “so we have moved you to another room. It will cost you no more, I promise you.”

Douglas lay on the stretcher and tried to remember what had happened in the catacombs. He remembered going through the door and seeing the stone block covered with…what was it? He couldn’t remember clearly. It was as if he had a blank space in his memory. How had he injured himself? He had clearly cut himself on something sharp as he remembered the sound of the blood dripping on to the floor. Oh well, he thought, I’ll just relax and my memory will return. I’m sure of it.

Douglas must have passed out again for when he opened his eyes he had been moved to his room, or more especially, his new room.

It certainly was very nice, much nicer than his previous one. There were oil paintings on the wall and bright, gleaming light fixtures. The window had been opened and a thin gauzy curtain swung to and fro with the incoming breeze. Suddenly Douglas knew that he had been in this room before! Of course, in his dream! And what had happened next? Someone had knocked at the door. Yes! That was what happened and he had gone to open the door…!

All at once as in the dream, a knock sounded on the door and once again, Douglas felt his hackles rise and his heart starting to beat in terror. He couldn’t let it in, he just couldn’t…!

“Go away!” screamed Douglas. “Go away please! Please!”

The door suddenly began to swing open and Douglas felt he knew what was about to enter. He lost control of his consciousness and sank into oblivion.

Douglas was a sad sight as he was transported off the plane at Heathrow in a wheelchair. The nurse that had been dispatched with him from the little hospital in Joball passed him over to a representative from a nursing home in Surry where he was being sent to recover.

“I don’t know the full story,” said the nurse from Joball. “He had been brought back from a trip with an injury, but after a few hours in his hotel room, he just lost the plot when the local doctor came to see him. He was found crawling over the floor screaming and shouting about something outside his door! Oh well, nice to meet you. I am on the next flight back to the island, so goodbye.”

“Oh you are lucky being out in all that sunshine,” said the nursing home rep. “ I wish I was working out there instead of in this cold, rain drenched country!”

It took six months of intensive care before Douglas was fit to return to his medical practice. He was taking pills for anxiety and panic attacks, but after all the therapeutic help, he was well on the way to recovery.

His partners were unhappy when he returned, telling him, he should take it easy for a bit. Some insensitive person suggested a holiday which caused Douglas to start shaking uncontrollably, but after recovering his cool agreed to work two days a week to start with. Gloria Jennings offered to sort all his appointments for him, to reduce any stress he may feel during consultations.

So the great day came when Dr. Douglas Watt stepped out of his car in the car park and entered his Medical Practice. The secretaries gave him a round of applause as he entered and a large bouquet of flowers sat on his desk next to a ‘Welcome Back’ greetings card signed by everyone in the building.

Shutting his office door Douglas sat down behind his desk and stroked its smooth top with the palms of his hands, “I’m so glad to be back,” he whispered to himself.

Looking down at the neat pile of folders on his desk he realised that his first patient was to be old, Mrs Heskith. Douglas thought about when he had last seen the lady and with a shudder promised that he would never tire of General Practice Medicine ever again.

The door swung open and Gloria led Mrs Heskith into the room.

“I’ll just be outside Doctor,” said his office manager and shut the door behind her.

“And how have you been Mrs Heskith?” enquired Douglas politely.

“Oh, not too bad, Doctor, if the lumbago would ease a bit,” replied the old lady. “Did you have a nice holiday? Where did you go?”

Douglas forced himself to reply, “I went to Joball, Mrs Heskith, you probably haven’t heard about it, have you?”

Mrs Heskith turned towards Douglas and as he watched the old woman’s eyes became black and glistening.

“Oh yes, the island of Joball, where the inhabitants make little sacrifices to please the Dead. Their ancestors intercede for them with the dark forces and prevent any repercussion of the tidal wave that hit the island three hundred years ago. Oh, I know of Jobal, Doctor Watt. And remember something else… We must all make sacrifices…”

Mrs Heskith’s jaw swung down and dislocated like a snakes’ and from her maw an oily darkness poured out and over Douglas totally engulfing him.

The last thing he heard on this earth was an echo of Mrs Heskith’s advice,

“We all must make sacrifices….!”

……………………………………………+……………………………………23/02/14 Cairniehill