GERALD GRAYSON and MICHELLE von HORROWITZ are
[CTHULHU’S NEPHEWS]
in
”PETITE VERONIQUE.”
*****
He could feel the hill beginning to level out finally, his heartbeat elevated and his breathing a little laboured. His boots were caked in mud and, beneath the mud, the wet, white sand that bordered the small island. It was comfortably hot. A gentle breeze grew more noticeable as their altitude increased. ‘Their’ on account of there being two of them nearing the modest summit of the modest hill. He glanced back down the slope at his tag team partner, who was holding a cigarette but spluttering in the midst of a coughing fit rather than smoking it. She was muttering to herself when she wasn’t absorbed by wheezes, and although he was out of earshot he sensed the negative trend of her monologue.
About ten metres below him, Michelle paused besides a large, smooth, nearly spherical boulder. She kicked at it to get a sense of its integrity and then, contended, sat on top of it. She sucked at the end of her cigarette and was soon doubled over by another onslaught of hacking coughs. Gerald turned away from the scene and continued the climb.
It was his idea to take a break and went on vacation for a few days. It was her insistence that took them to a place as remote as Petite Veronique. A small island around twenty kilometres east of St. Lucia, Petite Veronique had ties to the government of St. Vincent to the south, and the French overseas territory of Martinique in the north. The island was settled four generations prior by a small number of meteorologists from the former, and when their research proved useful for the latter, farmers and fishermen were stationed there to support them. The population had remained steady at between eighty and one hundred for the proceeding eighty years, with most of the stork’s new arrivals dutifully following in the footsteps of their parents and entering one of the three primary professions upon the island: farmer, fisher, or meteorologist. Surprisingly self-sufficient but for the parcels of supplies brought to the northern beaches of the island every Tuesday morning, Petite Veronique’s people were in touch with the world around them but remained happily and willingly aloof from it. It was a common saying upon the island that France, St. Vincent, and the rest of the world had forgotten they existed, and it was only right they do the same in return.
Petite Veronique was difficult to access and therefore supply, and as a result the other surrounding nations - specifically St. Lucia to its south-west and, more distantly, Dominica in the north - paid it little mind and allowed St. Vincent and the French to get on with things. Unlike many of the other Grenadine Islands, temptations to turn Petite Veronique into a resort had been resisted. To this day, the island remains one of the most difficult to access in the Caribbean. That is, of course, unless you’re owed a favour or several by the St. Vincent government, like a certain COSMIC HORROR that you, my reader, and the Connection, my protagonists, list as a mutual acquaintance.
It was on Petite Veronique, as we’ve established, that Michelle sat and struggled through the end of her cigarette. Whilst Gerald had come prepared in shorts and a loose-fitting sports vest (basketball, if she had to guess), Dreamer wore much the same garb as she did everywhere else, except her black hoodie had been removed and tied around her waist. She didn’t own walking boots and her Vans were ruined. On the way to the island in the boat that Uncle arranged (the Yoct still being out of commission), one of the mates had warned her of a storm brewing to the north. He talked about strong and peculiar winds, and black clouds upon the horizon. It was hard to imagine anything but the smothering sun right now. She hoped for a rain to provide some respite.
Gerald, meanwhile, reached the top of the hill. He stared about himself at the ocean that surrounded him. Two islands - Martinique and St. Lucia, he knew from a brief study of the maps aboard their boat - straddled the horizon to the north. To the south, the outline of the small village was scattered across the slopes, and beyond this the endless blue. Only in the distant north-east was there a suggestion of gathering black clouds, and it was easy enough for the Daredevil to convince himself that the sailors were right. The storm would pass by the island and wither as it traversed the open sea.
He stood on the summit and breathed in the ocean air, which rolled in on the back of the gentle breeze. Back on the mainland, when his life was concerned with the hustle and bustle of the big city, his mind was a chaotic place. It was the FWA, or the big tent as Michelle called it, that dominated the usually stormy seas inside his head. Chief amongst those preoccupations were two matches with the Undisputed Alliance: one in the past and one in the future. One that had been forced upon them, and one that Dreamer had brought about herself. And, by extension, upon him. It was the first time that Gerald had thought about any of that since they’d arrived on Petite Veronique, and he did his best to rid his mind of such plagues. As the ocean air filled his lungs, that task wasn’t particularly difficult. He felt emboldened. Perhaps it was even time for a singles run. If Michelle was splitting her time between the tag and singles divisions, why shouldn’t he, too? He felt dizzy with a sudden and unexplained overconfidence.
As a hopeful and contented smile spread over the Daredevil’s face, Michelle finally arrived next to him. She shoved her hands into her pockets and stared over the face of the ocean. Gerald observed her scowl and surmised that she wasn’t encountering the same clarity that he was.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, as she lit another cigarette. Another one, he thought, before admonishing himself for his judgement. “Aren’t you glad to be away from it all?”
“Walking is hard and boring,” Michelle said, simply.
*****
Michelle and Gerald sat in the corner of the village pub, which was smaller, more crowded, and less quiet than Dreamer hoped. Still, she’d managed to get her hands on a beer and a whiskey (as well as a water for Gerald), so she supposed she shouldn’t complain too much.
“So,” the Daredevil began, and there was something in his tone that suggested he was about to shift the conversational topic onto the FWA. This was a common habit for Gerald, and Michelle strapped herself in for it. “We’re doing the same thing again.”
“How specifically are you talking?” Michelle asked. She was unsure if he was broaching the topic of Nate Savage, Jackson Fenix, and their upcoming repeat defence against the Undisputed Alliance, or if his point was a more expansive one. A tournament had just ended, the Grand March was fast approaching, and Michelle and Gerald were balancing priorities between the FWA World Championship and the FWA World Tag Team Championships. Devin Golden had even just lost the former as a result of a Golden Opportunity cash-in. They’d been here before. Only minor details were altered.
“I’m talking about the match,” Gerald replied. He shuffled uncomfortably on his low seat, a clear tell that he was approaching the smaller topic in hopes of finding an entrance point for the larger one. “Back in Town was closer than anyone would’ve guessed, and closer than I’d have liked. I think you lit a fire under them with your barbs on Fight Night. Especially Nate.”
Michelle sipped her drink and lit a cigarette. The best thing about drinking on remote islands was being allowed to smoke inside. Gerald was looking searchingly at her. There was no question in his speech, but still it seemed that he expected a response. He told her that this was generally how conversations worked, but she found herself longing for peaceful silence instead.
Fortunately for Dreamer, Gerald’s focus was broken by a low, rumbling laugh emanating from the table next to them. The two stools around this table were occupied by a man and a woman who were dressed identically (and primarily in wool) and even looked a little alike. Both were plump and comfortable, both nursed a tankard of ale whilst they listened to a dispute between two of the other patrons in the bar. The Connection didn’t know it, but these full-bodied individuals were Mr. Suggs and Ms. Suggs, who both worked on the north slopes farm and despised each other. Even now, as they watched the evening’s entertainment and Mr. Suggs weighed into the debate with his low, rumbling laugh, their allegiance was divided between the two protagonists.
“Laugh all you like, Suggs,” one of the arguing men continued. His face - young and handsome, probably, in a more relaxed state - was hurt by the mockery, but he defiantly pointed a resolute finger at the farmer and then the other man. “But my machines don’t lie. It’s coming.”
“Your machines are faulty, then,” the other man, who was standing at the bar, replied. He shook his head at his counterpart dismissively. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And what would you know about it, Claude?” the first shot back. “The bureaucrat more trusted than the meteorologist… I tell you about a storm and you’re all more interested in this pencil pusher’s jokes.”
Although most of the pub’s patrons were indeed amused by the meteorologist’s fluster, Michelle surmised that his assertion that all of them were on Claude’s side was an overestimate. Ms. Suggs, for example, shared guarded, encouraging glances with the man her husband laughed at, and Michelle thought she saw the woman behind the bar doing the same. The weatherman was popular with the fairer half of the village, it seemed.
“I know, Jacques, because I’ve spoken to both Martinique and St. Vincent today, and neither of them are worried about your storm,” Claude replied. “It’s going to pass about thirty kilometres to the east. Stop trying to drum up hysteria. You lean too heavily on the doomsday predictions.”
“I sent my latest findings to Martinique this evening,” Jacques answered. He was agitated in his gesticulations, but Michelle was surprised to find him smiling. “I expect the evacuation order will be coming any minute.”
“Lead the way,” Claude said, dismissively. He turned away from Jacques to face the bar. “We’ll be right behind you.”
Shaking his head and muttering something along the lines of I’ll show you, you’ll see, Jacques the meteorologist drained his drink and shuffled out of the tavern. Claude ordered another beer. Mr. and Ms. Suggs continued not speaking to one another. The other patrons resumed their private, quiet conversations.
“The sailors on the boat were saying the same thing,” Gerald mused, as he sipped his water. “Maybe we should leave. Get in touch with Uncle and arrange a pick-up.”
“We’re probably safest here,” Michelle answered, with a shrug.
*****
Uncle had arranged for Michelle and Gerald to stay in a large and luxurious villa on the beachfront, and the pair sat upon the white sands as the moon climbed high into the black canvas before them. The air was still, and it was difficult to believe there was talk of storms approaching. The gentle encroaching of the waves was the evening’s only soundtrack. She had brought a bottle of Jameson’s with her from the mainland, and the Daredevil allowed himself a rare and indulgent pull whilst Dreamer smoked a joint. He’d all but given up on broaching the topic of the Undisputed Alliance, let alone the implications of the Grand March. At least for tonight. Michelle was content that the peaceful silence she’d yearned for had finally descended.
Perhaps thirty metres away from them up the beach, just as Michelle was stubbing the end of her joint out into the sand, the hunched figure of the meteorologist appeared from between a pair of sand dunes. He was staring at the interface on a handheld device, a long antennae reaching out from it into the night. He wore headphones, and after staring at his screen for close to a full minute, he sat down on the sand to retrieve his notebook and scrawl down some readings. Michelle could only just make out his figure but felt sure that he was smiling.
Eventually, the meteorologist turned to face the pair of them. It seemed apparent that he was unaware, until now, of their presence. He removed his headphones and offered them a wave, which Gerald instinctively reciprocated. The meteorologist stood up and approached.
“Lovely clear night,” the meteorologist, whom the pair already knew as Jacques from the confrontation at the public house, began. “Good for observation. I’m Jacques, Veronique’s premier meteorologist. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Gerald,” the Daredevil said, whilst offering out a hand. The eccentric meteorologist gave Gerald a toothy grin in response but left the hand unshook. Gerald took it back and wrapped it around the whiskey bottle again, which he returned to Michelle. “You really think there will be a storm?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it,” Jacques answered. “The only debate is about how close to the island it’ll strike. And I happen to know that Storm Nathanael will be a direct hit.”
“You think they’ll evacuate the island?” Gerald asked. She could sense the anxiety in his question.
“Sooner or later,” Jacques mused. “Hopefully sooner, I guess. Though it makes no difference to me.”
“You intend to stay?” Gerald asked, with a cocked eyebrow.
“Of course!” Jacques answered. His grin grew brighter still. “It’s been a long time, friends! Someone has to stay and greet it.”
With that, the meteorologist turned back to face the sea. It was obvious that he was giddy. Dreamer surmised that this benign little man wanted the storm to come here. To monitor it was his occupation but, at some stage or another, it had become more of an obsession, and now he thrived in it. The entire purpose of his being was tied up in the oncoming storm.
Michelle noticed that he was barefoot. He walked into the sea, his long antennae once more groping out towards the moon. He pulled his headphones back into place and went on in his work.
*****
“You didn’t have to go so hard on Nate,” Gerald said, as he wrenched at his hammer lock. “At the end of the match, or before it…”
“Agree to disagree,” Michelle responded, as she reached between her legs to pick one of the Daredevil’s. He fell onto his back and she immediately turned him over in a single-leg Boston crab. “Savage’s bark is worse than his bite. We’ve beaten them once, we can beat them again.”
Michelle’s last pair of sentences were delivered whilst sitting high on Gerald’s back, wrenching at her hold and contorting her partner’s body at an uncomfortable angle. The Daredevil instinctively began to crawl, but there were no ropes to afford him a break. They were sparring on the summit of the hill on Petite Veronique, and Grayson realised he’d have to escape through other means. He’d hoped the walk to the top of the hill, which had been arduous for her a day before, would afford him the advantage in the session, but Dreamer seemed to always find a way. This time, it had been a pocket full of sand she’d carried with her from the beach, which she’d flung into the Daredevil’s eyes as they’d begun to spar.
In desperation, Gerald wriggled through Michelle’s legs and delivered a trio of hard forearms to his partner’s forehead, the third of which gained him some separation. He kipped up to his feet as Dreamer came at him once more, but this time he countered with a deep arm drag before placing Dreamer in an arm bar.
“I think you should pay more attention to Storm Nathanael,” Gerald said, applying more pressure on her arm.
“Oh, please,” Michelle answered, her voice pained and strained. “I imagine that’s the reason Uncle sent us here. Jacques the meteorologist and Storm Nathanel. Don’t buy into it, Gerald.”
“Be that as it may,” Gerald replied, whilst resisting Michelle’s attempts to squirm out of the hold. “The real Nate Savage showed us at Back in Town that we shouldn’t underestimate him, and you’re doing the same with his namesake here. You’re walking right into it…”
Suddenly, Dreamer rolled through, alleviating the pressure on her arm and applying a grounded headlock. Grayson began to fight up to his feet, Michelle moving to his side to keep her weight on him.
“Historic reign, Gerald,” she reminded him, as she felt his arms wrap around her waist. He hoisted her up with an attempted back suplex, but she over-rotated and landed on her feet… and then threw herself into the back of his knee with a chop block! Grayson fell to the ground, and immediately Michelle was on him with an ankle lock.
Dreamer dropped down into a grapevine, the young man in her grasp defiant even in his desperate predicament.
“We’ve got a match in less than a week, Gerald,” Michelle reminded him. She was only tweaking his ankle at the moment, and applied more and more pressure as a warning to him. “You can’t fight the Undisputed Alliance with a broken ankle…”
Finally, Grayson tapped out, and Michelle let him go. She helped him to his feet, the Daredevil walking a little gingerly on his ankle as they walked back to their packs.
“Nate and Jackson, I can understand,” Gerald said, as he stared out over the ocean to the north-east of the summit. Black clouds were gathering in the distance. “But this storm isn’t one we need to face. We should go home.”
“Not yet,” Michelle answered. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
She began the hike back down the hill towards the village, leaving Gerald to watch the gathering, distant storm with a glum and defeated countenance.
*****
Michelle waited at the base of the hill, sitting on a low wall and smoking a cigarette, for the eventual return of her tag team partner. She'd last seen him deeply invested in his thoughts, still upon the summit when she was already half-way down and thinking of the evening's first beer. He'd come down eventually, she reasoned. How long could one spend in isolation with nothing but Nate Savage and Jackson Fenix to occupy their thoughts?
Before Gerald's appearance from the top of the hill, though, came Jacques' appearance from the bottom of it. She spotted him before he spied her. It was difficult not to. He cut an inconspicuous figure, his hands full of equipment (meteorological equipment, she assumed), and a heavy rucksack packed with ostensibly more of the same on his back. Eventually, when he noticed the young woman in black, sitting on a low wall and smoking a cigarette, he smiled broadly as one would when encountering an old friend. He bundled up towards her, fiddling with a dial on one of his many devices.
"More observation?" Michelle asked, as Jacques stopped in front of her. “More readings?”
"Always more readings," the meteorologist said. The machine he'd been toying with finally stirred into life, an encouraged grin blossoming on his face. He pulled the antennae out from the end of the device. "Nathanael won't wait for me to be ready."
"You seem almost excited," Michelle posited. Jacques didn't even try to hide his giddiness. He was too invested in his tinkering.
"It's been a long while since a real rain has come," Jacques said, whilst meeting her gaze. She looked at the young-ish, handsome-ish man with curiosity. He returned a knowing glare, confident in himself and assured in his beliefs. "We get the occasional rain here on Petite Veronique, but generally it's been arid times as of late. And a dry period for the island is a dry period for its meteorologist. But this one…"
He leant in closer towards her and lowered his voice, as if letting her in on a secret.
"It's going to be quite something."
Michelle followed his eyes to the black clouds upon the horizon. There seemed to be more of them now. The mass was imposing, distant though it was. Angry and growing angrier.
"I've seen worse, I'm sure," Michelle said, absently. Her mind was momentarily drawn to Santa Camila, the fishing boat she'd manned there, and the storm that had almost swallowed her whole.
As she watched the black clouds gathering, Gerald finally reappeared at the bottom of the hill. He took a seat next to Michelle on the wall, his body language still expressive of his unease. He stuffed his hands into his pockets whilst Michelle finished her cigarette, barely registering the eccentric meteorologist standing in front of them.
"You shouldn't underestimate it," Jacques said, finally.
"That's what I've been telling her all along," Gerald added.
The meteorologist bowed his head respectfully and then began trapesing up the hill. Michelle led the way towards the public house.
*****
They were drinking on the benches outside of the pub, Gerald deciding he'd join Michelle on the beer for once. He figured the display of comradery might win her over to his cause. Perhaps throwing himself in would finally convince her that it was time to go home. Whilst they were here, though, the Daredevil thought he might as well broach the topic that had been most prevalent in his chaotic thoughts. Their arrival on the island had brought a temporary respite from these nagging doubts, but they seemed to be returning on the back of the gathering black clouds.
"It's the Grand March again," Gerald said, rather suddenly, as Michelle sipped at the head of her beer. Most of the patrons were inside, for some reason. The evening was mild and crisp. She was surprised to be alone, except for Gerald. "You remember last year?"
"Of course I remember last year," Dreamer replied, without meeting the Daredevil's searching gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"You can't not have noticed the similarities," Gerald began, carefully but resolutely. "It's a triple threat, you're challenging for the world championships. It could have been Golden, but it's not, and the Golden Opportunity briefcase is to blame for that. And…"
He took a deep breath. Steeled himself.
"... and the tag team championships are on the back burner," he said, his voice steady. That was enough to get her attention. She turned to face him with a cocked eyebrow. "Last year, it was stepping aside for Stu and the Roman so that we could focus on dethroning Nova. This year, it's delaying our defence until the Carnal Contendership so that you can pour your efforts into dethroning Chris Peacock."
"It's not really the same thing," Michelle interjected, defensively.
"It's comparable," Gerald insisted. "We have a rematch with Nate and Savage coming up… and then another defence against God knows who at the Carnal Contendership. Dangerous challenges await us. Unknown quantities. And… how can I be sure where your head is, given what happened last year? Even if this storm passes us by, or if we manage to weather it, the forecast doesn't stay clear for long."
He paused to sigh. Michelle shuffled uncomfortably, uneasy under the weight of his gaze.
"I need you here. With me."
Michelle lit her cigarette. Carried on drinking her beer. Remained silent. Gerald shook his head and expelled a slight huff.
"Why do you always insist on going out without an umbrella?" he asked.
The question, uttered in earnest, brought a wry smile onto Michelle's face. She didn't, however, have time to answer, as their sanctuary was momentarily punctured by Claude exiting the public house and Jacques entering it. The two passed on the path leading up to the building, with both men offering a cursory and seemingly adversarial nod to the other before continuing on their way whilst grumbling beneath their breath. Before entering the tavern, Jacques stopped in front of the Connection and greeted them with a warm, knowing smile.
"Another clear evening to the south," Jacques pondered. "But the north is in turmoil. It approaches. Close now. Are you going to the beach tonight?"
Michelle shrugged and sucked her cigarette.
"Hadn't planned on it," Gerald offered, absently. He wasn't best pleased at the interruption. He was finally talking to Michelle about things he thought were important. Things he'd kept to himself for weeks if not months. Not only did the meteorologist drag them away from that, but he also brought with him tidings of the doom. The coming storm was all he seemed to speak about.
"I suggest you do," he said, with an air of mystery and a playful wink. "Don't want to miss the fireworks."
Jacques disappeared into the pub. Gerald sipped at his drink, his impatience clear. Michelle did her best to ignore them both.
"We should contact Uncle," he said, finally. "Arrange a pick up."
"In the morning," she conceded.
*****
Gerald had already gone to bed, buoyed by the promise that tomorrow they'd begin the process of being rescued. There was still time for him to be woken yet. She feared it would come to that. The sky was hostile and ferocious. Black clouds rumbled in from the north. She watched them approach from the beach, a hard and cold wind blowing through her. She couldn't see the moon for the black blanket that smothered the island.
Out to sea, lightning struck the surface and illuminated the scene. It was a harsh, unforgiving one: full of brooding dread. A hard rain flooded out of the black clouds, soaking her through and drowning the beach in a prophetic misery.
In the distance, a lone boat was being rowed out into the ocean. Towards the storm. A hunched figure manned its oars, his back to the gathering wrath as he forced them through the waves.
In the distance, a colossal black tornado dominated the horizon. More lightning battered the sea's surface. The low rumbling of thunder rolled over her in waves.
