Story: "Daredevil - Part 10 - Paths of Destruction"

Napoleon, a survivor from the Mutiny of the Bounty, and a demonic killer in the cobblestoned streets of Toulon, 1793.

This is Part 10 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 or Part 9 yet, please start there.

PATHS OF DESTRUCTION 

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

“Can I let you up?” Jean’s face was close to his, voice low. “Can I release you without you trying to run or … something worse.” He looked over at the large hunting knife on the ground next to Freund’s right foot. Sighed. “I guess not. I guess you would do something stupid, if given the opportunity. So, we can’t release you. Yet. What we can do, is talk. Maybe you’ll listen.” He straightened up and turned to Freund. “Get rid of that thing, will you?”

Freund kicked the hunting knife, launching it down the alley. “He’ll still run, you know,” the tall albino muttered under his breath.

“Yes, I know. But maybe, just maybe, he’ll listen. Okay, let’s find a place where we can sit for a while. But, just in case, I think we need to make sure he can’t talk.”

Lamb’s eyes widened.

“No, no.” Jean laughed. “I just meant that we don’t want you screaming for the gendarmes, now, do we? Let’s see what we can do about that.”

He went down the alley, and there came the sound of ripping, once, twice, three times, four times. Jean came back with four long strips of cloth.

“She won’t be needing these anymore. I made sure they are relatively clean. No blood. At least not on the one that goes inside your mouth.”

Jean rolled up one cloth-strip into a tight ball, and, working with Freund, forced Lamb’s mouth open, jamming in the gag, then used one of the other strips, tying it around his mouth to keep the gag in. Next they tied his ankles together and his wrists behind his back, using the remaining two cloth strips.

“Creative,” Freund said. “From her skirt, right?”

“I use what The Lord provides.” Jean turned to Skinner. “Come help out. Let’s get this trussed-up lamb away from here, find somewhere we can talk in peace.”

Skinner and Freund, each grabbing one end, picked up Lamb by shoulders and ankles, and carried him between them. Lamb didn’t bother to squirm and fight it, conserving his strength. He would find an opportunity, somehow, to break free.

As they hauled him down towards the harbor waters, Lamb flashed on the image of himself and Naboleone with Antoinette’s corpse suspended between them. At the harbor, on one of the jetties, they put Lamb down, propped him up against one of the wooden pylons. It was dark, but there was a bit of light from nearby street-lanthorns and shining out from the tall ships docked nearby. Lamb’s eyes had dark-adapted, and he could see their faces clearly, even in the low light.

Jean sat down, cross-legged, and motioned the other two to join him.

“Alright, Samuel, our captive audience, hear Peter’s story now. You can choose to believe it, or not, but hear him out.” Jean laughed, gave Lamb a slap on he shoulder. “And I suppose you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Here you sit, ears open, so you can’t do much, other than listen, right?” He turned to Skinner. “Go ahead. He’s all ears.”

“Well, uh, ehm.” Skinner cleared his throat. “Samuel, think back to before the mutiny, the time when we stayed in Otaheite, collecting breadfruit plants, enjoying our time with the natives, the peace, the simplicity, the kindness … the women.”

At the memory, Skinner gave a half smile, lighting up into a full, wide grin, eyes crinkling, and Lamb could almost see the old, carefree, fun-loving Peter again. The one everybody liked.

The one Lamb hated.

Then, as suddenly as it came, it was as if someone snuffed the light from within, leaving Skinner darkened, gaunt and drawn, a shell of his former self, as he continued:

“Do you remember the branch from the oil-nut tree?”

He waited, as if for a reply, then — realizing that Lamb, bound and gagged, would give none, not even a nod — went on. “That old tree at the ‘marae’, the natives' sacred site. Fletcher Christian cut off that branch, then brought it back to the camp and tied it to the post of his hut. Do you remember how … wild … the natives became? How the women screamed. How the men raged and threatened. How they hurried away from the camp, carrying their women and children with them. All because of a branch from an oil-nut tree. Our whole camp was cursed, forbidden, ‘taboo’, until one of their priests, the ‘tahu’a’ performed a cleansing ceremony.”

Lamb did remember this incident. It had been a sudden, unwelcome reminder that they lived with savages, with uncivilized, unbaptized natives, animal-men with strange, ungodly customs and superstitions.

“Well,” Skinner continued. “Much later, months later, long after the mutiny, after you were gone, Samuel, that ‘tahu’a’, that priest — Keaka was his name — he became my ‘taio’, my protector-friend. Keaka told me the secret, the reason for the natives' fear when they saw that silly tree branch. The ‘marae’, the place we thought was a sacred site, was in actuality a cursed place, a place where evil spirits were strong, and —”

“A thin place,” Jean interrupted. “A place where the veil between the seen and unseen is ripped aside, for those who can see with more than their eyes and understand with more than their minds.”

“This particular ‘marae’ was where evil men worshiped and sacrificed to evil spirits,” Skinner continued. “There they sacrificed humans on the stone altar, the ‘ahu’. The evil men wanted to tame evil spirits from ‘po’, the underworld, attach that evil spirt to themselves, turn it into ‘fetii’, a kind of servant, but more than that, a sort of … relative, almost … a strong taio protector-friend for their family. And once they had tamed an evil spirit, they would give it shelter in some physical object, a ‘tiki’. This was very important. Without the ‘tiki’, the evil spirit would roam free, and would then change shape, take on the form of an animal, a monster, or … worse … possess a human being, use that human being as its ‘tiki’. The old olive-nut tree in the middle of the ‘marae’, was their most powerful ‘tiki’. In it was sheltered, contained … no, imprisoned, really … the most dangerous evil spirit, a horrifying demon.”

“Asmodeus,” Jean said. “Well, that is not what the Otaheite natives called him, of course. That is our name for him.”

Freund, who had been quiet to this point, now spoke up.

“Oh, my little lamb, I can see in your eyes that you think this is superstition, fairy tales.” He leaned close, those strange, albino pink-blue eyes locked on Lamb’s. “But, I can assure you, from personal experience, it is not so. This is more real than … anything … you have experienced. This, my lamb, is the true reality. It is this —”

Freund slapped Lamb, hard, across the cheek.

The stinging blow turned Lamb’s cheek bright red.

“Did that feel real? Believe me, what we call evil spirits, demons, are a hundred times, a thousand times more real than that, than anything you have ever felt. Wake up, Lamb, and believe, before it is too late. As the bard says: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosophy’.” Freud turned to Jean. “The bard, Shakespeare, he’s known, I mean, he has written all those plays already, right, or am I confused again?”

Jean smiled. “Yes, William Shakespeare’s plays have been around for hundreds of years.”

“Good. I get so muddled about all this, sometimes.”

“Understandable.” Jean put a hand on Skinner’s shoulder. “Please, go on.”

“Well, it wasn’t Fletcher Christian that cut off that branch. You all thought he did, because he was the one who brought it back to camp. No, the one who did the deed was Charles Churchill, the masters-at-arms, the one with the scalded hand, you remember?” Skinner looked at Lamb intensely, staring him down, until Lamb relented, nodded.

Yes, of course he remembered Churchill. What was it Bligh had called him? ‘The most murderous bastard.’ Yes, that was the one.

“It was Churchill,” Skinner repeated, "Churchill, not Christian, who cut off that branch. I was there, I saw it. Churchill and two others had deserted. This was in early January of 1789, a little more than two months since we landed in Otaheite. You probably remember. But what you don’t know is that, four days after their desertion, Christian and I found them, hiding in that ‘marae’.

"While Christian and Churchill went over to confer together alone, the other two deserters, John Millward and William Muspratt, told me that Churchill had been going to the ‘marae’ days and nights, going back and back, as if under a spell, and for the last two nights he had brought the two of them with him, raving about power, strength, virility, promising that the place would make them like new men, younger men, forceful men.

“Churchill, they said, was getting wilder, more uncontrollable, day by day. They were afraid of him, afraid for him, that he would hurt himself, or others.”

Skinner wiped his forehead, then continued:

“Churchill and Christian had moved a ways away from the rest of us, and they whispered together for a long time, almost an hour. Then, suddenly, Churchill was over by the olive-nut tree, a big hunting knife in his hand, and he cut off that branch, brought it back to Christian, gave it to Christian to hold. And then … then … he stabbed Christian, stabbed him right in the thigh.” Skinner made a stabbing motion, acting it out.

"Blood spurted from the wound. It was a deep cut, so close to a major artery that it could have been — should have been — fatal.

We all jumped up, ran over, pulled Churchill away from Christian, and helped staunch the flow of blood, bound up the wound, saved his life.

"But here is the strangest part. It wasn’t an attack. I saw and heard it all. Shortly before the incident, I had moved closer, left Millward and Muspratt by themselves. I wanted to hear what Churchill and Christian were whispering about, and I can swear that Christian knew what Churchill was about to do. Right before the stab, Christian looked at Churchill, nodded, and he said ‘Yes, do it, Charles. Do it quickly. I am ready now.’ Then, as Churchill stabbed him, I heard Fletcher Christian say: ‘Come in, I invite you, of my own free will do I invite you into my heart, my soul. From this moment, I trust only in you.’

"It was from that day, from the day we returned and Christian tied that branch from the oil-nut tree to the post at the hut, like some sort of totem, that he began to act, well, not like himself. You remember, if you think back. You were there. And you knew Fletcher Christian. He, who was always a cheerful man, became .. altered … suddenly filled with dark moods. He was constantly speaking ill of Bligh, dark, poisonous words, going on about the slights he suffered at the hand of the Captain. Delusions. I never saw Bligh mistreat Christian. Bligh and Christian had always been on such good terms, as you know. This was their third voyage together, and Bligh always treated Christian as his protege. On his part, Christian always spoke of the Captain with the highest regard. Overnight, this changed. It was inexplicable.

"Then, about three weeks later, so it would have been late January, the three deserters — Churchill, Muspratt, and Milward — were apprehended. At Christian’s command, he and I had let them go after the incident at the ‘marae’, and never told anyone that we had seen them. But then Heywood and his men caught up with them in a small village where they were hiding. Well, you remember, you were one of Heywood’s party as I recall. So, Bligh had them flogged: twelve lashes for Churchill, two dozen for each of the other two, then all three were put in irons, with Bligh promising to have them flogged again. He was a man of his word, and, as I’m sure you remember, Samuel, they were, in fact, all flogged again, about two weeks later.

“The whole time the deserters were in irons, awaiting that second flogging, Christian was down in the hold, whispering with Churchill at all hours. I know, because I led the detention detail. I heard them. Later I understood that was when the mutiny plot was hatched, and whether it was Churchill’s or Christian’s idea, we never knew, not even after. What I do know is that Christian was often full of remorse, after, raving that it had been outside his control, that he had acted against his own will, that he was living in hell.”

Lamb thought back to the morning of the mutiny, the words he had heard from Christian’s own lips, whispered to Bligh: ‘I am in Hell — I am in Hell.’

“After the mutiny, while Christian was in his increasingly dark moods,” Skinner went on, "Churchill acted ever more violent, more unpredictable, picking fights, raving, calling down curses on anyone who got within earshot.

“And then it began, the killings. A full six months after the mutiny, in November, 1790, we found the first victim, on a rainy night, outside our camp, throat slit, her body cut open, all her intestines pulled out. It was one of the native Otaheite women. She was such a sweet young thing, the special friend of Mathew Thompson. You remember Mathew.”

Lamb nodded. Despite himself, he was caught up in Skinner’s story now.

“And then, it happened again, and again, and again, and again, and again. The second woman was two weeks after the first, then the third woman, a week after that, and then, as November wore on, it was another woman every few nights.” Skinner put his face in his hands, long pale fingers, caked with Esperanza’s dried blood, covering his eyes. He looked up at Lamb. It went on and on, night after night after night. Then, as November turned to December, it stopped."

Jean and Freund looked at each other. Jean spoke up:

“Peter gave us the description of the killer’s method, how he killed the women. And he told us this before the first one here in Toulon, before Antoinette was killed.”

Lamb thought: but if Skinner is the killer that would explain everything. Of course he would know the killer’s method if, in fact, he is the killer.

Skinner continued his tale:

"By the time the ‘Pandora’ arrived, in March 1791, to apprehend us, Churchill was already dead, killed by Mathew Thompson, who in turn was killed by Churchill’s native friends. Fletcher Christian had sailed on the ‘Bounty’, striking out for another island, somewhere uncharted, taking around half a dozen of the company with him, leaving fourteen of us on Otaheite, when the ‘Pandora’ arrived.

"We were clapped in irons, locked up in ‘Pandora’s Box’, the prisoner’s hold they had built especially for us, the mutineers. But then, on August 29th 1791, the ‘Pandora’ was shipwrecked on the Great Barrier Reef, outside Van Diemen’s Land. And here is where I made my escape, together with that old sandy-haired German, Henry Hilbrandt, the cooper, you remember him, the one with an arm — the left — shorter than the other.

"As the wreck of the ‘Pandora’ lay, back broken on the great reef, Henry and I hid in the water, clinging to pieces of timber, a little ways from the wreckage, ducking below the surface whenever any of the crew came near, and in this way, we were numbered among the missing, presumed dead. When ‘Pandora’s’ surviving crew, along with the ten surviving prisoners, left in their longboats, Hilbrandt and I waited another day, then set after them in one of the remaining launches.

"Ours was only one third of your journey with Bligh, only a little over one-thousand miles, and it took us less than half the time, but I will never forget it, the open sea, the wind, the waves, the rain, and just me and that half-mad, raving German, for three weeks. But we made it to Coupang, and there we hid out, because the crew and prisoners of the ‘Pandora’ were still in town, waiting for a ship that could take them back to England.

"And there, in Coupang, is where I realized that we had brought the thing, the killer, the demonic spirit, with us from Otaheite. When Hilbrandt and I arrived, a week after the crew and prisoners from the ‘Pandora’, Coupang was in an uproar. There was a killer of women on the loose in the town, and the method was the same as what we had seen at Otaheite: throats slit, bodies sliced open, innards pulled out or re-arranged. The killings went on until October 6th, which was the day the crew and prisoners of the ‘Pandora’ set sail again for England. After they left, the killings stopped.

“And so, I realized, the thing, the evil spirit, must have been carried by us mutineers from Otaheite, riding along with us in ‘Pandora’s Box’, using one of us prisoners as its host, its ‘tiki’, for the journey. And now it was headed for England.”

“As you surely know,” Jean spoke to Lamb, “of the ten prisoners brought back on the ‘Pandora’, only three were condemned and hanged, with the remaining seven either acquitted or pardoned. It must have been one of those seven who carried the demon, Asmodeus, back to England, and from there, on to Toulon.”

Jean gave Lamb a long, searching look. “I believe you now understand why we needed to bind you up and gag you, so you would be forced to hear the whole story. It’s a strange tale, and it needs open ears, an open mind, and some time to sink in. But now you have heard it all, and I see that you have listened attentively.” He leaned over, began to untie Lamb’s gag. “So, I will venture to let you speak, trusting you will no longer feel the need to call the gendarmes. As you can see, we have not harmed you, and we have freely shared all we know.”

With the long strip of cloth removed from his mouth, Lamb spat out the wad of fabric, un-gagging himself.

“And how do I know,” he said, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar to himself, “that this is not all a tall tale?”

Skinner said: “If you search your own soul, reflect on the memories you have from Otaheite, you will know it to be true. You know that all the events I recounted, those you yourself witnessed, were the truth. You saw for yourself, how Fletcher Christian changed, how he was filled with dark moods, so unlike himself, after the incident with the olive-nut branch.” Peter Skinner’s voice was intense, full of emotion. “And if you don’t believe me, at least believe on the evidence of these two gentlemen, who will both swear that I was able to predict, in the greatest detail, how the women would be killed.”

Jean added: “And, lest you think that perhaps Peter, himself, is the killer, let me assure you this is not the case. We, Freund and I, can both attest that on the night of Antoinette’s murder, Peter was with us. He could not have perpetrated this terrible act of violence.”

“So, if I do believe all this, and I’m not saying I do, mind you, but if … then, who? Are you saying that one of the seven surviving prisoners from the ‘Pandora’, those who were acquitted or pardoned, is the killer, and is here in Toulon, now?”

“That is one possibility,” Jean agreed, “but not the only one. The Malleus Maleficarum reveals Asmodeus as a demon of lust, envy, and vile revenge. He plays on the lusts and envy and thirst for revenge, the paths of destruction, that rule all men. He is a master of persuasion. And one thing we know about this demon, Asmodeus, is his ability to transfer from one host to another, at will. So, he has most likely transferred, long ago, to possess another host. He could be anyone.”

“Your friend, the one who goes by Carlo Ramolino, for example,” Freund said. “A man of great lust for life, for glory, a deep-seated need to prove his worth, and we heard how he wants vengeance on his enemy, Paoli, and all those who slighted him in his native Corsica. Ramolino would be a tempting target for Asmodeus.”

“But it could truly be anyone,” Jean said. “We are not pointing a finger at young Carlo Ramolino, young Naboleone di Buenaparte. It could be … oh, let’s say, and you would enjoy this to no end, I’m sure … your General O’Hara, who, after all, knew Antoinette, intimately. What we need is to flush Asmodeus, bring him into the open. We need to bait a trap to catch the old demon.”

“A honey trap,” Freund said.

— END PART 10 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 11 of the story.