Keepers of the Lost City

5 Unexplained and Unwarranted

The night was ripe already, but with all the excitement, Cecil was far from tired. After he pulled his car in where the farmer directed, he helped old Cockran to cover the truck’s bed with tarp until the morning. Around the walls of the sturdy wooden structure, a furor of barking ate up their conversation.

“Bella! Hunter! Shut up, you fucking runts!” Cockran shouted at his dogs. Immediately, their boisterous barking fell silent.

“I’ll examine the livestock tomorrow morning,” he told the old man. “They should be fine here, unless you cannot lock the barn. We don’t want anything tearing them up before we know for sure what happened to your sheep, Nigel.”

“That’s right,” old man Cockran chuckled heartily as they secured the end of the large canvas to the sides of the truck with thin nylon rope. “Now, come on, let’s get some grub, hey?”

“Oh thank God. I am starving,” Cecil cheered as the old man gently ushered him out of the barn and locked the doors securely. The veterinarian was introduced to Cockran’s wife, Sally, who was far kinder on first encounter than her husband. She insisted that their guest have two helpings of pie, and then loaded him with custard and brandy bake for dessert.

“You are spoiling me, Sally,” the visitor smiled uncomfortably, having clearly overeaten to compensate for the ravenous hours he suffered in the early night.

“Oh, please, you,” she replied sweetly, tapping him on the arm, “you have more than worked for a bit of spoiling. Thank God you came along too,” she added, casting her husband a typically spousal glance, “or else Nige would still have been keeling next to the animals. Probably would have ended up in the same way too,” she shook her head. “Madman.”

“We cannot afford to lose livestock,” the old man explained defensively, to which she just nodded with a sigh.

“What brings you up these parts, Cecil?” Sally asked as she cleared the main course plates to make more space for the pudding utensils.

“Oh, God, yes,” the visitor exclaimed, having almost forgotten about the peculiar circumstances under which he had found his father’s gates when he arrived. “I nearly forgot to ask!”

“Ask what?” Nigel asked as he took a sip from the neck of the beer bottle, to his wife’s annoyance. She always insisted on a glass, but he never listened.

“How well do you know my father? The farm next to you, my father inherited it a few months ago and moved from our old farm to start some strong agricultural production here,” Cecil inquired. The old couple exchanged brief, uncertain glances that Cecil did not like the look of.

“What?” he urged. That old churning stomach reared its head, almost eradicating Cecil’s healthy appetite.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Nigel replied. “Are you talking about Nekenhalle Farm?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Cecil beamed, hoping for constructive information.

“Your father got that land?” the old man asked. “Interesting.”

“What is interesting?” Cecil persisted, trying very hard to sound less paranoid than he really was beginning to feel about their reaction.

“That land was condemned for so many years,” Nigel told him, nursing the bottle in between shards of revelation. “Tell you the truth, I had no idea there were people living there now.”

“Geez, nobody told us, otherwise we would have gone out to take a casserole or something when they moved in,” Sally lamented. Her smile was warm. At once, her face lit up. “I suppose we can do that tomorrow when you go back.”

“That would be lovely, thanks Sally,” Cecil nodded. “But, uh, on that note, I was wondering why the gate was locked when I got there. I could not get hold of my dad, you see? Now I must admit, I am a bit concerned.”

“Aw, don’t you worry, son,” old Cockran roared happily, “that drive up to the old house is so bloody far, I am sure he did not know you were even waiting at the gates. Did you honk?”

“I did, and I called, but nothing,” Cecil reported.

“That’s nothing new, hey love?” Sally chuckled, nudging her husband. Nigel grinned in agreement. “Yep, tourists hate these parts because of the shitty cell phone reception. Hardly anything gets through down here at the foot of the mountain. Not like there by Moana or the higher parts like Inchbonnie or Mount Alexander. Tomorrow we’ll climb over the gates and walk up to the house, alright?

The couple were not too fazed by the news, which did alleviate Cecil’s emotional turmoil about the matter considerably. If the people who knew the area, and Nekenhalle, so well, felt no emergency was at hand, he was satisfied for the time being.

In the morning, Cecil woke from the clanging of dishes down the corridor. Feeling a bit stiff from the sudden hard labor of the night before, he sat up in bed to wake up properly. The bright southern sun came sharply through his bare window, torturing his sensitive eyes. There were no curtains up in the guest room, because Sally was still making the new ones. She had told him this in fervent apology when she prepared the bed for him during the night.

A heap of loose material was draped carelessly over the Singer in the corner, next to the antique wardrobe that had seen better days. Next to his bed was an old paraffin lamp and a box of matches.

The smell of bacon and toast wafted through the house, the perfect incentive for Cecil to get up. After all, he had some animals to check first off, and then he had to get to his father and brother as soon as he could. Getting dressed, Cecil slipped the matches into his trouser pocket as he pondered on the trouble with his father’s farm. He hoped that the two old people hosting him were right and that he needn’t worry too much about the desolation of Nekenhalle.

“Morning, Cecil,” Sally greeted. “Come, get warm before you go out there.”

“Where is Nigel?” he asked her as he sat down.

“Gone to shower,” she answered. “Got up in the dead of morning to get a few of the sheep back in the pen. Looks like somehow the latch came loose.” Her voice was a bit strained, so Cecil elected not to ask any more about it.

“This bacon looks delicious,” he smiled as he packed on an unhealthy amount of it.

“I hope you like it,” she cried from the doorway of the kitchen as she headed for the sink to deposit her husband’s used plate in the warm soapy water. “Make sure to try my marmalade too, alright?”

“Way ahead of you,” he bragged, as he smeared the appealing orange preserve over toasted, freshly baked bread. “My God, if I stayed her any longer I would end up obese in no time. This is amazing!”

“My grandmother swore by it too,” he heard her cackle among the dishes clinking.

Thirty minutes later, when Cecil’s belly was about twice the size it was before, he limped out to the barn. He felt ashamed for eating so much, but his gluttony was not intentional. Flavor was so much more enticing than fortification, especially when food was prepared with such flair and affection. Sally was a bona fide darling and Cecil had to stop himself from prying into their personal lives by asking if they had children. Sally Cockran was simply too motherly for him to believe that she harbored no great history full of feats. He decided not to pry, no matter how curious he was.

The thick doors of the barn were slightly ajar, like a twisted grimace on the dark countenance of the structure, still blocking most of the morning sun behind it. As he walked through the wet grass, Cecil was wary of the Cockran’s’ dogs. By their barks the night before they sounded monstrous and he had never been keen on canines. In his head he could hear his father reprimanding him for being cautious, ‘They are just bloody dogs. Bill Best would never have backed off for silly pups of any sort. You flaccid little rodent! Show them who’s higher on the food chain!’

“Oh shut up,” he whispered audibly to shake the chastisement out of his thoughts. Anticipation gripped him with every step that he approached the barn with, just waiting to hear that slobber growl or even a sudden charge from some demonic large breed. “So far, so good,” he muttered as he hastened to the threshold. Then it hit him. “Oh God, please don’t let them be inside the barn!”

Cecil swiveled his head as he stepped inside, but only his vehicle stood there, next to the beat up truck that belonged to old Cockran. The barn stank of day old roadkill and wood shavings, nothing he was not used to. Under the tarp Cecil found the sheep a little tougher in the meat than before. What was bloody tissue last night, was now a rubbery bed of dry blood and blackened coagulation. Clumps of wool tangled in the twisted neck of the first animal, its spine protruding right through the tissue.

“So, got anything yet?” the farmer suddenly exclaimed behind Cecil, almost jolting his heart into a full stop. He gasped sharply as he turned to the old man, and held his breath until his eyes returned to their normal size.

“Gee-zuss, Nigel!” he wailed.

“Sorry, sorry, son,” the old man apologized with an irresistible smirk forcing its way onto his face. He was wearing his leather hat and gloves. “Anything I can do to help you with?”

“Uh, no, thanks, Nigel. You are welcome to watch. Look, I am not promising anything. By the looks of this one it was definitely a truck. Look at that force. If it was a normal car it would sustain considerable damage and would have to have been going at over 120 km per hour too.”

“There is no way you can drive that road at 120,” Nigel Cockran declared. “No bloody way.”

“You see here?” Cecil directed his attention to the neck of the sheep. “That is a broken neck, but not just a broken neck, you see. By the way the bone is embedded in the tissue, this animal was…” he looked at the desperate look on the old man’s face, waiting in anticipation for an answer, “crushed.”

“Like when a truck would hit him,” Nigel affirmed.

The veterinarian was more than a bit unsettled; that was plain. He wanted to leave it at that, so that Farmer Cockran would have a logical answer and be able to carry on with peace of mind.

“There is more, isn’t there?” Cockran asked without any prompting. Cecil did not know whether to lie it away and be done with it, or to address the interesting phenomenon. If he chose the latter he would be tied up with a time-consuming, yet far more intriguing, mystery. “Well?” the old man pressed.

Cecil sighed and nodded his head. Again, he pointed to the fracture in question. “Do you see the way the spinal cord is pushed into the skull?” Cockran nodded. “That proves that whatever killed this animal did not only break its neck, it crushed the broken bones right into the flesh. And notice this?” he continued, gesturing the old man forward to better regard the twisted stump of brittle bone he was pointing out. “That is evidence of upward dislocation.”

“What do you mean by that?” Cockran asked, looking grave.

Cecil stared at the concerned farmer with equal worry. “It means that its head was screwed off like a bottle cap.”

“Jesus Christ!” Cockran gulped.

“Only the hide and some of the subcutaneous tissue was still holding it on the body,” Cecil elucidated to the old man’s horror. Cockran was speechless, hanging his head. His feet moved, but he went nowhere, stomping in one place in bewildered indecision. Suddenly he looked up. “And the other one?”

“Will get to that one now,” Cecil said.

“There are no natural large predators here, you know,” he told Cecil. “We have no beasts that hunt and kill livestock. I mean, Christ, we don’t even have anything more hazardous than a bloody feral cat on this island. If a truck did not do it, then you tell me son, what in God’s name has the force of a truck and the propensity of breaking a sheep’s neck short of decapitation?”

Cecil was quiet. He agreed with Cockran, yet he could provide no cogent explanation.