The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All - By Laird Barron Page 0,73

accounted for the man’s exotic features and the flattening of his accent. It was odd, very odd. Evidently, Mr. Blaylock was also an anthropology professor, and another of Dr. Christou’s legion of fans and correspondents, but details weren’t forthcoming, just the gibberish of mutual recollection that left all save its intimates in the fog. He finally gave in and said, “If I may be so bold, where are you from? Originally, that is.”

Mr. Blaylock said, “Why, I was born here. We all were born here.” He inclined his head to include his companions. Something in the curl of his lip, his archness of tone, indicated here didn’t necessarily refer to Kansas or the heartland, but rather the continent, if not the world itself. So Mr. Blaylock was that smug species of academic who delighted in double entendre and puns. Asshole. Lancaster drained his whiskey, masking a sneer.

Ms. Diamond pressed against Lancaster as a spouse might and muttered, “What the hell are you doing?” She maintained her pearly shark smile for the audience.

“It’s a fair question,” Mr. Blaylock said, as if he’d somehow overheard the whisper. “Mr. Lancaster, you’ve been around the block, yeah?”

“I’ve heard the owl hoot,” Lancaster said. “And the Sri Lankan Frogmouth too.”

“I hear you. You Limeys speak your minds. You’re inquisitive. No harm. I approve.”

“Not much harm,” Ms. Diamond said.

“You are exceedingly generous, Mr. Blaylock. But I’m American.”

“Oh, yeah? Odd. You must spend loads of time on the island.”

Dr. Christou said, “Our kind patron heard a Frogmouth hoot. Have you seen a Rakshasa, perhaps?”

“Not in Kansas,” Mr. Blaylock said.

“What’s a Rakshasa?” Mr. Cook said.

“It’s a flesh-eating monster from Indian mythology, dear,” Mrs. Cook said. “There are packs of them roaming about in classical Indian literature, such as the Mahabharata.”

Dr. Christou said, “I’ve not encountered one either, nor do I know anyone with firsthand knowledge. However, in 1968 I visited a village on the Greek island of Aphra and interviewed the locals, including a Catholic priest, who were thoroughly convinced vorvolakes stalked them. The priest showed me a set of photographs taken by a herdsman that were rather convincing.”

“Ha! The ones in The Feral Heart were far from convincing, old friend. Very, very far.”

“Certainly the lighting was poor. Sunset, so the contrast of light and darkness was jarring. Of course, shrinking them down to fit the page also compromised the quality.”

“Was there a creature in the pictures? How exciting,” Mrs. Cook said.

“Eh? You haven’t read his famous book?” Mr. Rawat said.

“In fact, yes. I read books for the words, not the pictures.”

“There were at least four creatures, actually,” Dr. Christou said. “The shepherd spied them emerging from a crypt in the hills at dusk. The man was on a bluff and they glared up at him. Horrifying once you realize what you’re dealing with, I assure you.”

“The goat herder took a picture of something,” Mr. Rawat said. “To settle the matter, the film should be sent to a laboratory and analyzed.”

“Alas, that is impossible,” Mr. Christou said. “I returned them to the priest after they were copied into the book. The village was abandoned in 1970, its inhabitants scattered along the mainland. What became of the herdsman or the film remains a mystery.”

“Rubbish,” Mr. Rawat said. “I’ve studied the photos a million times. Our nameless shepherd captured images of youthful vagabonds. Perhaps grave-robbers at rest, if one is inclined toward drama.”

“No mystery about the missing film,” Mr. Blaylock said. “When the Greek government repatriated the villagers to the mainland I’m sure such materials were confiscated or lost. You mentioned a priest—perhaps the Church spirited away the evidence for secret study. Too convenient?”

“Too conspiratorial, I’d think,” Lancaster said. “Most of the tinfoil hats amongst the clergy were exiled to the fringes by the ‘70s, were they not?”

“You are familiar with the Eastern Church?” Mr. Rawat said, raising an eyebrow.

“There was this girl I met in Athens who’d gone astray from ecclesiastical upbringing in a big way. She gave me the history lesson. The infighting and intrigue, the conspiracies.”

“I bet,” Ms. Diamond said.

“Life is full of little conspiracies,” Dr. Christou said and looked at Mr. Blaylock. “Imagine running into you here of all places. I thought you lived in British Colombia.”

Mr. Cook said, “What were those other critters you mentioned earlier? A vorvo-something?” He sounded bored.

“Vorvolakas,” Mr. Rawat said.

“Vorvo-whatsis?”

“Blood-sucking undead monster from Greek mythology, dear,” Mrs. Cook said. “There are scads of them in the old writings of The Eastern Church.”

“There’s also that Boris Karloff movie,” Mr. Rawat said. He