Play@YSDC

It's very early on Holy Tuesday in Easter Week, and the sky is bright and clear. Laurent and Pierre are down by Pointe Pierre looking out towards Anse Douce cove. The tide is in and most of the beach is beneath the water but there is a narrow strip of sand they can walk along to reach the caves at the far end. A very few fishermen are out in the bay but most are still sleeping in their shacks along the shore at this time. One or two might be preparing to attend mass in the Catholic Church in the northeast of town, near the water front, others Lenten Vodou rituals in the Hounfor.

Somewhere in the distance they can hear the hoots and drums of a Rara band. But here in Pointe Pierre everything is quiet. The shops are still closed, wooden doors held fast or metal shutters drawn down. The larger boats tied up to the pier, others lined up along the sandy shore among patches of rough grass. There is no one in sight except for a couple of fishing boats bobbing in the distance. The heat of the day is not yet upon them but that fishy stench of the pier is starting to fill the air, mingling with the salt and droplets of water. Just the slightest waft of the more unpleasant odours of Dame Marie town itself, rotting rubbish, effluent, donkey shit.

The old malou tree looks naked without Old Pierre Labas underneath it. Leaning up against the tree is a sort of instrument. Skin and wood over a gourd back. Four strings, although one of them is snapped. Odd faces on the surface made out of cowrie shells, crude and grotesque.

"I wonder where Pierre Labas went?" says Laurent, looking around. "I could probably fix that instrument for him. It just needs a new string."

Since yesterday was Monday, I think today is supposed to be Tuesday.

I'd like to bring a flashlight to explore the cave.

Pierre looks at the tree, 'Who knows where the old man goes, or what he does.' He wanders over and lifts up the strange instrument. Picking at the remaining strings they ring out surprisingly strongly. 'Ha, Labas has left his gourd bandjo behind.' He holds it up and looks at it closely. 'Ugly thing. I don't think I've seen it before.'

OOC:   I'm not sure how likely it is you'd have an electric torch in this era. Roll me something to see what you've got. Rags on a stick up to nice electric flashlight depending on what you get.

Unfortunately, Laurent didn't have an electric flashlight, so he had to improvise.

Occupation die:
1d6

Laurent goes through his tool kit, looking for an electric flashlight. He's sure he had something, something he uses to get a good look inside engines. After quite a few minutes rifling through the bag and eventually tipping it out, he finds what he's looking for. It's a rather small electric flashlight, good for getting into small places but with a pretty weak beam. He clicks it on and off a few times but it doesn't come on. After giving it a hard tap with the palm of his hand it flickers on.

Laurent keeps the flashlight turned off until he needs it to save battery life. He checks his tool kit to see if he has anything that could substitute for the missing string.

There's a length of stiff wire that Laurent unrolls and straightens out. It's a little thicker than the other strings but he thinks it would do.

Laurent takes the replacement wire and tries to repair the banjo with it.

It doesn't cause Laurent too much trouble to restring the gourd banjo. He gently tightens it until it sounds near enough to the others. He gives it a strum across all the strings and he can hear the replacement is just slightly out of tune, there's also a very slight metallic twang to it but that's inevitable given the material he had available.

'Why are you messing around with that?' whines Pierre.

OOC:   You can try and tune it properly if you like, sounds like a human roll and you can risk an Insight die if you want.

"Just doing something nice for Pierre Labas," says Laurent, as he tries to tune the banjo.

Roll (human die) trying to tune the banjo:
1d6

He's not exactly a musician but Laurent has a decent ear. He plucks the other strings then gradually tightens the wire until he has a note that sounds right. Then he strums all four strings and the notes ring out clearly. There's an odd harmonic effect, the individual sounds seems to intertwine and amplify, like a chord but more so. It's loud, and clear, cutting through the air. Laurent can feel it in his brain, burrowing in on the crescendo, then dissipating with some residual impression left as the sound fades away.

Then there's a crack. Impossibly loud, coming from the direction of Anse Douce, like tree splitting at a strike of lightning. 'What...? gasps Pierre. But Laurent is still reeling from that chord. He drops the banjo to the ground and feels himself wobble and begin to topple over before Pierre catches and stabilises him.

OOC:   Insight roll please

"I couldn't have done that, could I?" says Laurent, setting the banjo gently down. He shakes his head. "No, that's impossible. Come on, let's go to the cave."

Insight roll (current level 4) after the crack:
1d6

Pierre laughs weakly and shakes his head, 'You don't play that badly Laurent.' But his face betrays his unease.

Leaving the banjo gently propped up under the tree where he found it, Laurent and Pierre walk down to Anse Douce.



The day is getting hotter as the sun rises further into the sky. The walk down to the beach in the oddly still air raises a sweat in Laurent whose shirt is getting sticky under the arms and down his back.

There's only a thin strip of white sand visible with the tide so far in, tangles of sea-grape bushes covering the sand forces them to paddle through the shallow blue water in places. There's a humid closeness that Laurent hasn't felt here before. The air isn't so fresh, no breeze comes off the sea, and the fishy stink that clings to the pier in Pointe Pierre is getting stronger rather than dissipating.

Through the scattered rocks and chunks of coral, Laurent and Pierre return to the gully at the end of the 'peaceful cove.' Entering the maze of coral chunks and naked rock they approach the network of sheltered, dark caves. That same ammonia smell like rotting fish is becoming overpowering. And there's something strange about the caves, they don't look right somehow, like they're different from the last time they were down here.

Like they've moved.

"Could that have been an earthquake?" Laurent wonders aloud. "Let's go inside. Maybe it stinks less in the caves." He looks around for any signs of recent passage, such as footprints in the sand.

In response to Laurent's thought about an earthquake, Pierre purses his lips as if he's about to say something, then he just shakes his head and carries on walking.

This bit of the beach is very sheltered from the sea and Laurent can many footprints in the sand. It is difficult to distinguish individual prints in the tangle of impressions but he thinks he can see his own shoes, presumably from the last time they were here.



Back in the cave at the end of the cove things look different. The rock-itself has fissured, and crumbled, lumps of it shifting and sliding out of position. What was previously the zigzagging crack in the rock face has widened into a passage. Where before it narrowed to become impassable it now seems to continue back into the darkness. The stench is horrendous. The rotting, ammonia smell. Some of it must come from the bat guano that coats the cave floor with a thick layer of fine brown dust. But there's a gentle waft of breeze that seems to come from the passage in the rock, carrying the stink of whatever is beyond it, more than guano, something sweeter, more sickly, a nasty smell that Laurent can't place and isn't sure he wants to.

Laurent begins to feel light headed. That smell is getting deep inside his nose, his sinuses. It feels wrong, unclean. He notices that Pierre has backed up away from the passage, back towards the cave entrance.

From somewhere inside that passage he hears a noise, a sort of fluttering.

"That fluttering sound is probably a bat," says Laurent quietly. "I know it smells bad, but we should keep going."

Pierre continues to linger by the entrance, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Laurent goes further into the cave, noting the rock and indentation in the sand where they found clothes buried. And the criss-cross of many different sized footprints, many wearing shoes, some barefoot. They are a mixture of sizes suggesting men and women, maybe even children. A couple of the freshest barefoot prints are extraordinarily large, with deep indentations at the tips, with the impression of some kind of membrane evident between the toes. Laurent suspects it would pretty easy to identify whoever these prints belong to.

As he's crouched in the sand, looking at the prints, the fluttering sound from the darkness builds in intensity. In the confines of the cave it takes on a haunting, echoey quality. Louder and louder, Laurent begins to feel as well as hear it. A constant, rising crescendo. Rustling, dry and syncopated, leathery. And under that a scratching, crunching sound. The breeze from within the passage picks up, carrying a stale, rotten stench like opening an old tomb. Then in the blackness he sees something move, for a second the darkness seems to writhe and crawl and then before he can react a tidal wave of black and brown, flapping wings, scratching claws, little bodies colliding with one another, and the walls, and Laurent himself.

From behind him Laurent hears the sharp, fearful cry of Pierre before the unstoppable surge strikes him, toppling him over into the sand. Dark bodies flowing over and past him. Out through the opening of the cave and into the air. Foul, foetid, ammonic breath filling his mouth and lungs.

...

And then. As quickly as it started. The struggling, flapping wings are gone. And Laurent is lying on his back in the sand. The salty tang of sea air washing out the stench from his chest in great gulping breaths.

"It was a lot of bats," says Laurent after he recovers and gets back on his feet. "Pierre, are you okay?"

Pierre is lying on his back in the sand. Half in and half out the cave entrance. He has his arms crossed across his face and he's breathing rapidly but not making any other sounds. He doesn't respond to Laurent;'s questions.

Looking up into the sky, Laurent thinks he can see something wheeling away from the bay. A flock of birds perhaps, or even the bats.

Laurent tries to help Pierre.

Pierre doesn't initially respond to Laurent and he has to shake him by the shoulder for a few seconds before he opens his eyes. He levers himself up onto his elbow and grimaces at Laurent. 'Damn baton. This isn't a good idea Laurent. No good can come of it. Let's go home.'

"But Auxian needs our help," insists Laurent.

Pierre screws up his nose in what seems like a mixture of disgust and disapproval. 'Auxian can look after himself, damn houngan.'

He carefully pushes himself up into a crouch and then stands up stiffly. 'You don't know he's here. You don't know what's here,' and he points at the black, gaping mouth at the rear of the cave. Silent. Brooding. Laurent can feel it too. Not quite a presence, but something. Something waiting for him.

No more fluttering but that smell, it's still there, permeating the air, penetrating his nose, in his mouth. On his tongue. Slipping down his throat with the saliva. Flowing through him. Down, down inside him.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," says Laurent. He isn't particularly eager to go deeper, but he knows it is something he must do.

Shaking his head, Pierre nevertheless continues to follow Laurent at a little distance. Back inside the cave, Laurent slowly approaches the yawning crack that has enlarged out of the wall of rock. Its silence is oppressive. A black, brooding gash in the hillside which seems to slither away from the few shafts of sunlight that penetrate the cave. Whatever breeze there was now gone. Nothing but a sticky, clinging stillness. Heady with the overpowering stench of ammonic-guano.

The nearer he gets the more Laurent thinks he can feel a presence. Prickles on the back of his neck. A pressing tension between the eyes. A fullness in his ears, a sound...no...more like an absence of sound, a silent buzzing that he just can't focus on enough to say whether there is anything there at all.

'Laurent...'

Pierre leaves the name hanging in the air.

And Laurent continues to close the distance to the fissure. Placing his hand on the edge of the narrow passageway he can see there's enough room for him to squeeze through. Laurent isn't sure whether he was hoping for it to be impassable. He pushes his tool bag into the gap and then rolls onto the ledge, lying flat across the hole. Peering deeper through the the enlarged crack it disappears into darkness and he can't make out whether it narrows or widens as it goes deeper.

'Laurent...'

Wriggling around, Laurent is able to lie on his front, facing headfirst into the darkness. His elbows pressed hard against the stone, feeling pebbles and jagged edges of rock. He struggles to reach ahead of him and fish out the little flashlight from his bag. After a shake it flickers on and casts a weak beam of illumination that reveals little more than a few metres ahead where the floor of stone and scattered detritus continues onwards, into the cliffside. But beyond the beam of light the blackness remains, swallowing up the light until nothing remains. Just the relentless darkness. Just black. Black and black and black and no matter how hard he screws up his eyes and strains to see something more, just black.

Unwilling to move any deeper just yet, Laurent continues to sweep the flashlight back and forth, mapping out the walls of the passageway, grey rock, flat stones, little sharp pebbles, a few twigs and leaves. And something that glistens. Reflecting back the weak light. Twinkling as the beam skips past it. Expecting another piece of burnished gold jewellery, Laurent reaches out to try and grasp whatever is reflecting the light.

But instead of feeling the firm, sharp edges of metal, instead his fingers close around something that gives way in his grasp, dissolving into nothingness. Leaving the faintest of sensations against his skin. He pulls his hand away and looks at it in the torchlight. There is something silvery and glistening on his fingers, coating the fingertips, tacky as he rubs them together, viscid, stretching out to make thin bridges between thumb and forefinger.

Shining the light back to where he put his hand, more of the silvery substance reflects back from the flickering electric beam. After zigzagging the light across the rock floor he is able to trace a path, the silvery coating winds its way across the stony surface and disappears into the blackness. It's like the trail of a slug or snail but much wider, several inches across.

"This way," says Laurent, shining his light on the slimy trail. He begins to follow it.

It's hard going for Laurent, crawling over the rough stone, trying to avoid banging his head on the overhanging rock. Pulling his bag along and keeping the quavering flashlight beam shining ahead. The silvery trail zigzags across the stone but continues to head further inwards, deeper into the crack, deeper into the hillside.

His progress is slow and difficult, his elbows feel raw and bruised. Taking a moment to rest he rolls to one side and looks back to the entrance of the passage. Pierre is standing there, staring into the fissure, an odd, haunted look in his eyes. He doesn't even make eye contact with Laurent, just stares past him.

Laurent shouts out to him but he doesn't respond. Rolling back over, Laurent continues crawling into the darkness.

Apart from the glistening residue reflecting the light, Laurent's progress is otherwise featureless. Just the monotonous grey of the rock, a few stones and pebbles. And the blackness of the dark beyond the short reach of the flashlight beam.

The only sound is his own breath, echoing off the walls of the tunnel, the occasional scraping from the tools in his bag against the stone. Yet it still feels like the air is filled with a buzzing, a buzzing he can't hear but he can feel, hovering at the edge of his hearing, tingling just beyond the surface of his skin. The air is thick with it. The ammonia smell has lessened slightly, but there's something else becoming more evident. He still can't put his finger on it, like the rich, damp of wet earth maybe. And those prickles on his neck, more like an aching now, from his neck all the way to the back of his eyes. Like his head is being clamped in a vice, or his brain is swelling up and trying to escape through the holes in his skull.

Laurent keeps going, in spite of the pain. He has to finish what he started.

In the suffocating darkness, Laurent's flashlight casts feeble beams of light, illuminating the jagged rock like shards of broken glass. With cautious movements he struggles through the crack, tool bag clanking against the uneven surface. The air thick with bat guano and a smell of decay, a nauseating cocktail that clings to his skin.

Wriggling through the confining space that seems to go on forever, his fingertips scrape against the rough edges of the fissure as he probes ahead, hoping for an edge, some end to the rocky passage. The flashlight reveals nothing beyond the few feet of rock ahead. Then just as he thinks he can't continue any further, glancing back towards the diminishing light of the entrance, he rolls slightly and the rock gives way beneath him. With a yelp he tumbles into a yawning abyss, flashlight tumbling through the air beside him and clattering against the rock.

The beam of light flickers and then steadies. Shifting slightly the ground beneath him feels uneven and then gives a crunch that echoes around him, revealing the tunnel to have widened into some sort of cave. Reaching out for the flashlight he lifts it and swings it around him, breath catching in his throat.

The walls of rock and dark earth are crisscrossed by roots and patches of moss. The floor is carpeted in a thick, grey powder of accumulated bat guano. Poking through this are fragments of ivory white detritus. Scrambling to his feet, Laurent is better able to survey the floor of the cave. Beneath his feet the shifting surface cracks and crunches. Swinging the flashlight beam across the floor from one wall to another, and back again, scarcely able to process what he can see. Bones poking from the dust. Many intact, others at unnatural angles, in disarray. Mingled with the soil and dust. Skulls, and rib cages, and pelvises, and femurs. Row upon row of human skeletons, piled one upon another.

The eerie silence broken only by a gentle drip of water, trickling down the cave wall and pooling in a grey puddle. Somewhere the gentle flutter of wings. Laurent's heart beat faster and faster, pounding in his chest. The stench of death hanging heavily in the air, being sucked deep into his lungs with every ragged breath, suffocating in intensity as he stumbled in circles. The flashlight illuminating scores and scores of bodies, in every direction, piled against the wall, under his feet. The aged bones splintering and breaking under his tread as he tramples over their final remains.

OOC:   Roll Insight

Laurent barely manages to keep his cool.

Insight roll (current level 4) for seeing the bones:
1d6

As the significance of what he is seeing begins to sink in for Laurent he finds the stinking air growing thicker and thicker, clinging to the inside of his mouth and lungs. More and more difficult to suck in, the rising panic of suffocation as he can't draw in enough breath. His vision clouds, head spins, and he tumbles backwards in a crunching, splintering heap of corpses and dust, rising to fill the air with the powdery residue of pulverised bone.

Half-rolling onto his side, Laurent coughs, and retches, eventually vomiting the contents of his stomach into the dust. Scrambling onto his knees he takes another minute to settle his breathing, slow down the retching, and let his vision stabilise until he can focus on the sight in front of him.

Up close to the piles of bones he is better able to look at the individual remains. Directly in front of him the skeleton is mostly complete but the rib cage is splintered and fractured, the individual ribs scattered and the sternum shattered. And beside that one the next set of bones appear the same. Hauling himself to his feet he looks at more of the remains. Each of them seems damaged in some way. Mostly the ribcage, usually smashed or ruptured. But not from an external blow, as from a strike with a weapon, more like something inside has exploded out. But what could cause such injuries?

And who were these people? How could so many people die without anyone knowing? How long have these bodies been here? There haven't been this many deaths for...twenty five years...

Laurent gets out of the pile of bones. Shining his little flashlight around the cave, he looks to see what other exits there are, or if there are any other features he missed.

Laurent's light reveals something.

Roll (human die) to search the bone room:
1d6

Running his faltering flashlight beam along the walls of the cave, Laurent searches for signs of another entrance, but the rock and packed earth seems solid, although, now he looks more closely, there are some dark green and red patches that he thinks might be algae or maybe fungi. The only way in or out now is the long, narrow fissure leading back out to Anse Douce.

Now he has his breathing back under control, and the dusty clouds of bat guano and...whatever else have cleared, he is able to take a more measured look at the bodies that litter the floor of the cave. In amongst the dust-coated bones he can see small fragments of material. Pulling one out from among the detritus he blows the stinking guano off to reveal a soiled and weathered piece of cloth, browny-green in colour, frayed all around the edges. It has traces of an unpleasant, silvery residue on it, not unlike the trail Laurent saw in the passage. He thinks it is probably a preserved piece of cotton fabric, presumably all that remains from whatever this individual was wearing when they died, whenever they died.

Where he has disturbed the remains by pulling out the cloth, Laurent can see something quite angular sticking out of the dust. He pulls it out and cleans it off. It's a coin, obviously originally silver but now tarnished with a yellow-brown patina. On one side there is a flying eagle and it says UNITED STATES OF AMERICA...QUARTER DOLLAR, and on the other side there is a bare-breasted figure with a shield and olive branch, with the writing LIBERTY...IN GOD WE TRUST and finished with a date at the bottom which has significantly worn away, but which Laurent thinks might say 1917.

Turning to look back out into the weak light coming through the tunnel he sees an alcove to the side. Flicking his flashlight over it reveals what looks like a squat statue on a pedestal, before the beam finally gives up and flickers out. Before the light fails, the air turns heavy and oppressive. Laurent gets the unsettling sense that something is watching him, studying him. There's the faintest of sounds, trickling water, that almost seems to carry a voice that is just beyond his hearing. He moves towards the narrow alcove trying to get a better look at the figure in the near darkness. A sense of dread slowly building in the pit of his stomach as he gets closer.

Laurent whacks the flashlight with the palm of his hand a few times and eventually the beam returns, weaker and even more unsteady than before. The rock wall catches the light, strange, almost glowing lichen returning a green phosphorescence where it is illuminated, and reflecting the wet, shimmering look of silvery residue. A slow but constant stream of water runs down the wall and pools under a pedestal of dull gold. And on this sits a small statuette, squat and unpleasant to look at. The pedestal shines softly in the light, golden but with an unusual sheen, cool to the touch and slightly damp, the surface is engraved with intricate and alien patterns that suggest exquisite craftsmanship but which Laurent struggles to resolve in the poor light. Although he gets the feeling that the patterns themselves and writhing and twisting out of his sight. He finds himself reluctant to even look directly at the statue. It is made from some kind of stone, that much he can allow himself to see. A sort of greenish soapstone, but with a smooth surface akin to polished obsidian. It isn't exactly luminescent but Laurent can't help but feel like it casts some kind of glow around it. Looking closer at the shining stone surface there is an array of swirling colours deeper within, a mesmerising kaleidoscope of iridescent blues, greens, and purples dancing beneath the surface. Yet when he blinks his eyes he just sees the smooth greenish surface again. Reaching forward, reluctantly yet fascinated, he touches the surface of the figure. It is smooth and cool but running his hand over the surface there's something...indescribable about the sensation. Like it is lightly pulsating, like it is alive somehow. Grasping the figure firmly Laurent finds it is easy to move, deceptively light even, he finds it hard to reconcile the weight with the obvious size and material. But when he tries to lift it there is a certain...resistance, almost like a buoyancy in water. An inherent tendency, inherent desire to return to its resting place. And he returns it.

Finally Laurent forces himself to look at the statue. It's squat batrachian form grips the edge of the golden pedestal with webbed fingers and toes. The amphibian body is coiled and muscular, exuding an alien, otherworldly confidence. A sense of power and grace. He finds it hard to fully describe the shape of the figure, even to himself, but those round, unblinking eyes fix him with an unsettling intelligence and he has to tear his gaze away. Those eyes. They remind him of something. The towers and spires of coral beneath the calm waters of the bay. That feeling of unease, the prickle at the back of his neck, the shivers down the spine. The sure certainty that something is just wrong. Those fish. But not fish. The ugly, frightening, round unblinking eyes...

With Laurent's next breath he feels stinging, salty water gush through his mouth and into his lungs. Freezing cold, filling him up. He doubles over and starts choking...

OOC:   Another Insight roll I think

Laurent would be screaming right now if he could.

Insight roll (current level 4) for drowning on dry land:
1d6
Insight increases to 5.

The light in the cave changes, subtly shifts, darker. The only illumination is the unnatural green glow from the idol. Laurent still can't breathe, his throat is full, he sucks against complete resistance. Chest tense, a deep pressure rising from inside.

Looking around in panic he sees the cave is packed with people, pressing in around him. Normal St Joe people, they look scared. And in pain. The smell of sweat, and piss, and fear. No one is talking, there's just an anxious murmuring and sobbing.

Then someone cries out. People back away as best they can revealing a young woman doubled over in pain, gripping her abdomen. She almost seems to spasm, arching her back as her ragged shirt rips open in a gush of blood. Something...slimy, the size of a cat or small dog sloshes onto the floor, covered in blood and mucus. Like watching the birth of a goat. The thing on the floor is hard to describe to himself, even as he looks directly at it. Smooth, slippery, almost amphibian. The head turns to look at him, large, unblinking eyes that seem to bore through him. It slaps the ground with broad, webbed feet and then scampers on four legs across the floor with an unholy slopping. He watches it leap into the crack in the rock and slither out of the cave. Around him there is rising panic as others cry out, and he hears the sound of another moist body splashing onto the floor.

The pain in his chest is reaching an intolerable climax and he realises it is still impossible for him to breathe. No breath, no air will come. The pressure inside him is like something is trying to burst out. A throbbing pressure and pain, his ribs twisting, flexing...the wrong way, outwards, a loud crack and sharp, penetrating pain through his sternum. The agony reaching an exquisite peak, and he feels his skin stretching, tearing - a ragged pain then...relief. Something slides from inside him, releasing the pressure, as it slaps against the floor.

-----

And Laurent finds himself vomiting onto the floor of the cave. The pain gone. Gasping ragged breaths between retching. And in the distance he hears 'Laurent, Laurent, can you hear me?'

OOC:   Remember you can now Suppress Knowledge by destroying your discoveries - then roll and if you get less than your Insight reduce it by 1. You can now continue to do this even with Insight below 5

"I'm in here!" gasps Laurent once he recovers his breath. Once he is able, he gets to his feet, takes his hammer out of the bag of tools, and smashes the hideous idol to pieces in a fit of rage.

Thank you, I was looking forward to that.

Suppress Knowledge roll (Insight 5):
1d6
Insight reduced to 4.

Swinging his hammer against the noisome statue, Laurent finds it strangely solid as the tool crashes into it. It doesn't even move with the impact but where the hammer head strikes a series of cracks extend out across the smooth surface of the stone, iridescent veins, pulsing with sinister hues until between the cracks a bright flash of light erupts, shimmering, shifting colours, deep blues, emerald greens, thrumming purples bathing the cave in a swirling polychromatic lightshow that burns Laurent's eyes. For portentous seconds the idol just seems to sit there, frozen in time, shining out - trapping Laurent in an endless moment of awe and fear. Then chunks of stone slip, slowly sliding down the side of the statue, along the lines of fracture, then faster, more and more fragments, it begins to fall apart. Laurent has the strange sense of the statuette writhing and twisting somehow, like in pain, the shape warping even as it disintegrates before his eyes, crumbling to a pile of rock fragments that continue to emit a faint green glow in the darkness, casting shifting, wriggling shadows against the walls.

Laurent looks on the mound of stone chips with a sense of triumph and vindication. But in the back of his mind there's a new, unsettling, uncomfortable feeling. A lingering sense of dread and incomprehension. The nagging doubt that perhaps he has released something that should never see the light of day.

-----

Turning back to Pierre, Laurent sees he's come partway through the crack in the rocks, scrabbling blindly across the rough stone. 'Laurent, Laurent, what is happening? Are you hurt?' Behind him the bright sunlight suddenly dims, and Laurent sees some sort of shadow beyond Pierre.

"No, I'm not hurt," says Laurent. "I don't know if you'd believe me if I told you what happened, but be prepared for a shock. Who's that behind you?"

Pierre turns to look behind him as the dim light turns black and the tunnel fills with the flapping, writhing black forms of hundreds of bats swarming back into the cave from outside. Pierre flattens himself against the stone and Laurent ducks down behind the lip of the fissure. The furry black forms criss-cross the cave, buffeting against Laurent, he feels the scratching of their little claws through his clothes and against his skin. The musky, ammonic-stench of their bodies. The flap of the wings. Until eventually they rise up to the roof of the cave and roost, a roiling sea of bodies, seething and rippling, moving with one breath.

From the crack in the rock, Laurent hears Pierre's voice, he's picking his face back off the stone, 'Come on Laurent,' he reaches out a hand.

Laurent goes over to Pierre, takes his hand, and helps him to his feet.

Pierre scrabbles through the last of the rocky passage and Laurent helps him to climb out, into the cave. It takes him a moment to take in the sight. The piles of bones, splintered skeletons, golden pedestal topped with shattered fragments of vaguely glowing stone. His eyes widen and he grasps hold of Laurent's arm. 'Wha...what happened here?' He pulls violently at Laurent, looking him straight in the face with a look of panic. 'What is happening Laurent?!'

Above them the roosting bats murmur and shift about, issuing a seething, scratching sound.

"I don't know," says Laurent, "but it can't be good. I smashed a hideous idol that was over on that pedestal, but I think I may have let something loose."

Pierre's eyes are wider than ever and his breathing is getting quicker and quicker. He clutches at his throat and makes a gurgling sound.

Laurent tries to help Pierre, standing behind him so as not to get drenched. "That happened to me too when I came in here," he says. "It'll pass, but it isn't pleasant. Water's going to be coming out of your mouth."

Eventually Pierre doubles over and vomits into the dirt. Gulping deep breaths of air. After a minute of silence he wipes his mouth and just clambers back into the fractured rock. 'I don't want to see any more.'

"Yeah, I think I've seen enough too," says Laurent. "We need to find Auxian and tell him about this cave. and he's clearly not here. We can see if he's back at his place."

Laurent and Pierre scramble back out of the fissure in the cave wall. And emerge into the noon sunshine of Anse Douce. Waves lapping at the sand. Birds circling overhead. It all seems unreal after all they've seen. The two of them splash through the water as they walk back up the beach. It's hot, and both boys are sweaty and uncomfortable from their exertion. There's a light breeze but it doesn't seem to do anything to cool them down. The air still feels close, and clinging. The familiar fishy smell of Pointe Pierre grows stronger, and now that Laurent has filled his nose and lungs with the stench of that cave he can't seem to shake a lingering note of guano and decay.

Up at the pier in Pointe Pierre most of the fishermen have gone out. The gourd banjo is gone but there's no sign of old Pierre Labas.

"Looks like Pierre Labas picked up his banjo," says Laurent. "Let's go to the houngan."

Pierre and Laurent stroll languidly through the sweaty afternoon sun of Dame Marie towards the Hounfor district and Ramses's house. In the heat, the streets stink overpoweringly of donkey shit and effluent but today the air also has the slightest tang of salt from the sea. They walk past the Sharktooth Bar with a couple of people sitting outside drinking, Florence Lavigne doesn't seem to be working today.

Gliding past them on the other side of the unpaved main street, comes Mademoiselle André, teacher at the École Dame Marie, in a sleeveless dress of pale yellow cotton. It's a simple outfit but accentuates her shapely figure and draws the gaze of both Pierre and Laurent who are greeted with a wave and a 'Bonjour.'

Mlle André came to Dame Marie from Cap Matelot. In the beginning she lived at the school but before too long she moved out to the edge of town. Now that he thinks about it, Laurent recalls that she is Marise's teacher.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle André," says Laurent, waving back. "How are you today?"

Mlle André stops, and crosses the road to the two boys. 'Oui, ça va, et toi?' She turns to Pierre, 'I heard about Marise's...illness, I hope she is feeling better.' Pierre mumbles something noncommittal, clearly overwhelmed by the presence of the attractive teacher. 'She has been so distracted recently. I thought it was that boy, Eddie Forbin, but I talked to him last week. He said he and Marise haven't been seeing each other for some time. That she used to come down to Pointe Pierre to listen to music with him but now she sneaks off by herself, says she wants to be alone. I'm worried about her.'

"I'm worried about her too," says Laurent. "We could go talk to her. Do you have any idea where she goes?"

'Non, I would have thought you boys would have a better idea than an old teacher like me, she smiles ruefully. 'George mentioned something about her being found in Anse Douce.' She shudders. 'I don't like that place, there's something wrong about it. Gives me headaches when I'm there, I feel, funny. George says his boat was lost out in the bay and you found some of the people from it, was that in Anse Douce?'

"I think it might have been," says Laurent. "I know the feeling. We just came from Ance Douce, but we saw no sign of her there."

'Maybe she's at home?' she asks Pierre, who shrugs noncommittaly. 'Tell Marise I'm thinking of her and she should feel free to come and talk to me any time. She knows where I live, in Dr Cleremont's old place.' She frowns and shakes her head, 'And Pierre, you children stay away from Anse Douce. I don't like it. I get the strangest feelings when I'm there. I just want to swim out into the sea and never come back. That place has a bad effect on people.'

"Oui, I know the feeling," says Laurent, shuddering. "I don't ever want to go back there. We'll check for Marise at home."

'Oui, au revoir mes garçons, let me know if there is anything I can do to help,' says Mlle André and she turns to leave.

OOC:   Are you going to the Hounfor or to Marise's house?

Finishing their walk through the main street, Pierre and Laurent turn off before the banana thatch marketplace which is bustling with people, the occasional toot of a vaccine trumpet from in amongst the crowd. Wending down the narrow side-street they find the thin frontage of the Lavigne house is tightly shuttered compared to the open windows and sounds of laughter coming from their neighbours.

Pierre opens the door uneasily, Laurent hanging back slightly, aware of a new sense of tension in his friend's manner. The wooden shutters keeping out the daylight and casting the room into a subdued gloom. In the main room it is warm and sticky, the atmosphere intensifying, mirroring the pressure in the air. Florence is there, looking up sharply as they come in. Her face falling as she recognises the two of them.

She's pacing the floor, hands wringing in anxiety. 'Marise is gone again,' Florence says in a whimper. Laurent could see the worry etched on her face as she explained that they had a fight and Marise stormed off. Fabrice is out searching for her again.

"Mademoiselle André told us she was worried about Marise," says Laurent. "We were hoping she'd be here. We just came from Anse Douce, but she wasn't there when we were. Maybe we can help find her. How long ago did she leave?"

'It's been a few hours,' says Florence. 'Mon Dieu, that girl. She has changed so much. So sullen. So argumentative. What has happened to ma belle fille?' She sinks into a chair with her head in her hands.

"We'll find her," says Laurent. "Do you have any other ideas about where she might have gone?"

'I don't know! Fabrice is going to look in Pointe Pierre and Anse Douce. Where else could she go?' Florence just sits there, looking defeated, tears streaming down her face.

"Well, we already saw Anse Douce," says Laurent. "Point Pierre sounds like a good place to look for her. She's probably not with Eddie. They're not together any more. But maybe he knows some places she would go. We should go talk to him."

In the afternoon sun, Laurent and Pierre walk back down through town towards Pointe Pierre. There's a bit more life in town and some of the bars and cafes are starting to fill up with customers. Down in Pointe Pierre the fishermen are coming in with their catches, the smell of fish and salt is overpowering as they unload into stinking piles. A few of the early birds are already sitting outside Old Man Samuel's shop having a drink and a joke. There's no music playing out of his radio yet but a few of the younger folk are starting to gather. The music won't really get going until it's dark and the fishermen have gone into town to drink at the Sharktooth and the other bars favoured by the grownups. That's when Pointe Pierre really lights up.

A little beyond the shop, nearer the shore, Eddie Forbin and Paul Antoine from school are smoking cigarettes and kicking a tin can about between them.

"Bonjour, Eddie and Paul," says Laurent. "Have either of you seen Marise?"

Eddie and Paul stop their game and turn to look at Laurent. Eddie looks a bit embarrassed. 'Bonjou Laurent, Pierre. Mwen dezole, I haven't seen Marise. I haven't seen her for a while. We're not...' His neck flushes a little redder. 'We don't see each other anymore.'

"But you know where she likes to go," says Laurent. "Maybe there's a special place she heads to when she's upset or wants to be alone. She stormed out of her home, and her parents are worried and looking for her."

Paul rolls his eyes, 'Again?' But Eddie gives him a punch. There's something about the way he looks at Laurent that gives him the distinct impression that the boy is well aware Laurent is pleased to hear they're not together anymore.

'I don't know where she goes. I've never known. She used to come out here with me to listen to music then just slip away.' His expression darkens. 'Followed her once. All the way down to Anse Douce, that cove with the big rocks, you know? There was no one else there but when I caught up with her she was mad, real mad!' He looks imploringly at Pierre, 'You know how she gets. I just, I just walked away.'

He shrugs his shoulders. 'I'm real sorry about your sister Pierre, but I can't help you, konprann?'

"Merci, that's all right," says Laurent. "We were already at Anse Douce, but she wasn't there. Maybe she went there later, though." He turns to Pierre. "Let's check to see if Auxian is back and tell him what happened. He may have some ideas."

As Laurent and Pierre turn to leave Pointe Pierre the radio starts up in Old Man Samuel's shop. It takes a few moments for the crackling to coalesce into music. It's a jaunty tune played on the banjo and they walk away into the darkness with a little spring in their steps until the music suddenly comes to a jarring stop with a sound like a banjo string snapping. Then silence. Leaving them with an unsettled feeling. The music doesn't come back on and they walk along the dark shore towards the lights of the main street.

OOC:   The song sounds something like this.

-----



Wending their way through the darkness they eventually arrive at the Hounfor. It looks much as it did before. But there's no sounds coming from the place. Trying the door handle it remains unlocked. Stepping inside it is still as quiet as the grave. Any scent of smoke and incense from the previous ceremonies has dissipated. And there's no sign of Lazaire, or Ramses. Walking tentatively into the main hall of the hounfor it remains empty. The stools and chairs, the drums and candles, nothing has moved since they were last here.

But Pierre gives a sharp intake of breath and points at the painted blue column. Where there was that strange image of a merman before, now there's just the blue paint of the rest of the post. Laurent looks all around it, in case he's just misjudged where it was painted. But it's definitely not there anymore.

"I see it," says Laurent. "Someone must have painted over it." He takes a small scrap of cloth, paper, or the like and rubs it on the column where the merman had been to see if the paint is still wet enough to come off on it.

Rubbing a scrap of cloth down the column, Laurent only raises a light blue dust from the paint until he gets to where the image of the merman had been and then it smears and streaks like it has only been painted over recently.

"I thought so," says Laurent. "Someone's been here since we were here last and painted over it. But who, and why? And who painted it in the first place? There's nothing else here now, though. The only place I can think Marise went is Anse Douce. She could have gone there after we left. Unless you can think of a better idea, I think we have to go back there."

Pierre shrugs.

OOC:   Moving here.