The night crept in, under the door, dank and cold. The servants had banked the fire up good, and it did a valiant attempt at keeping the fog at bay, but the damp of the Thames was not to be denied. Above the odour of cigars and the coal fire, I could smell the dampness that permeated the carpets, that faint tang of salt from the sea, even so far away. Gas lights spluttered, somehow making the room feel darker rather than dispel the gloom they were intended for. The leather of my chair creaked as I snuggled myself back. The brandy was warming me nicely and I felt the glow that only good brandy and company can bring.
As was our routine, we had gathered to recount our experiences for Pickman. I was feeling uneasy. I had still not ventured out to explore our great city, and all that lies underneath. My bones ached perpetually, and I preferred the comfort of my residence on Park Lane. So, I sat there, hoping that Pickman wouldn’t turn his kindly gaze upon me in anticipation.
I needn’t have worried. After a few rounds of gentle conversation, the room fell into a natural silence and it wasn’t long before Shadwell cleared his throat, and we all knew he was about to tell us his tale. He wiped his mouth, and I noticed his left hand was bandaged, entirely covered. I vowed to ask him what happened at a more convenient time. The shadows of the room darkened, making the company look like shadows.
“Gentlemen,” began Shadwell. “Let me tell you about a strange figure I encountered down at the docks.”
At mention of the docks, a few of the company exchanged bawdy guffaws, quickly followed by a stern rebuke from Pickman. We all knew the reputation of the docks and those lonely souls who ventured there for a moment of physical comfort. The laughter soon died down, and Shadwell took another sip of brandy. Wiping his mouth with his bandaged hand, he looked long and hard at his glass, his eyebrows furrowing. An unfortunate effect of the shadows made Shadwell's eyes appear larger than usual, almost black as they swivelled inside shrunken sockets. I wondered when he had last slept, as he looked decidedly dishevelled.
“As I was saying, the docks are a fine place to wander during the day. You can experience the whole world under your very eyes just by strolling along the waterfront. Ships coming in from all corners of the world, bringing with them their own stories. Gentlemen, we are truly fortunate to live in such a glorious age.”
A gentle swell of agreement accompanied this statement. The room seemed to shrink as Shadwell began to tell his tale.
Some days ago, I had tarried at the docks, savouring the sights, smells and sounds. It was like walking through many different countries, all located here in our wonderful London. Truth be told, I hadn’t intended on spending so long there, but I found myself in a distinct reverie. So there I was, strolling around the docks, wide eyed as a puppy. In any event, dusk began to fall, and I decided it was time to retreat for home. After all, the docks are not necessarily the place a gentleman of means should be wandering around unaccompanied of a nighttime! So, I turned heel and started in the direction of Fleet Street, where, as you probably know, I’ve been renting rooms. No sooner had I done so, when I noticed a rag tag bunch of street urchins running down a street. The way they moved stirred the feeling in me that they had a single agenda. Knowing of our meeting, I decided to follow, hoping for a tale to share with you fine gentlemen.
They moved fast, darting down alleys that made me regard my polished shoes with woe. My feet splashed through puddles that reeked of all manner of human despair , and I distinctly felt the damp seep through. Even now I can remember the cold, clammy texture. By that time, I was too invested in the chase to give up on account of having, pardon my pun, cold feet. So, I pressed on, even though I was by now hopelessly lost in a warren of hovels the likes of which I hope to never see again. Grimy sheets hung above me, grey and motionless in the night air. Rabid dogs snarled their territory, as they strained against mouldering ropes that I hoped would contain them. And still, the urchins ran on.
They moved fast as whippets, and I would have lost them if they hadn’t made regular stops. The first was to collect a hand drawn cart, wooden wheels warped with age. I puzzled as to the purpose of this wagon, but the first mystery of the night soon revealed itself. Their next stop was a motionless body, slumped behind a particularly fragrant pile of refuse. My suspicions were confirmed as they bundled the body onto the cart. An arm flopped lifelessly out, which was efficiently secreted into the cart. In those god-forsaken slums, it seemed the dead were forgotten and left to lie where they died. I didn’t have long to ponder the heart-wrenching sadness of this final lack of dignity for these poor souls, for the urchins were off again, onto the second mystery of the night – what did they do with these bodies?
As I followed them, my first thought was they were taking the body to one of the clinics where surgeons purchased fresh cadavers to practice their craft on. I knew of no clinics in those parts, but even so that was not their destination. After another stop to pick up another body, we carried on, until the street opened up onto an old, disused harbour. After the claustrophobic streets, their buildings so slumped with age that almost no sky was visible, the open space felt practically dizzying.
A full moon was barely visible in the night sky, a thin drizzle reducing it to a white smudge. It was quiet at that harbour, and I looked around in an attempt to get my bearings. This was a part of the city I had never visited before, and could get no sense of where I was. The only thing I was certain of was the mighty River Thames, lapping against a mouldering jetty. The urchins chatted amongst themselves, but so quiet I couldn’t make out their conversation. The way in which they moved in small, fidgety motions made me think they were nervous, scared even. I wondered what they waited for, and in that murky moonlight, it was hard to make out just exactly what was happening.
In the gloom, I could just about see the group of children stiffen, almost like soldiers standing to attention, and, for some unknown reason, I felt my skin crawl. My senses became heightened as I strained my eyes and ears to try and make sense of what was happening. The children had stopped talking, and I could hear a creak of elderly wood and the gentle splashing of the river.
Soon came another noise to my ears. At first, I couldn’t place it. A scratching, following by a twittering sound. Rats, and lots of them! I expected the children to run and hide, screaming in disgust as a veritable tide of vermin swarmed over the harbour, past the urchins and toward me. I stood my ground, but I’m not ashamed to admit I felt close to bolting. Instead, I gathered my courage and held fast as the rodents washed past me, as a stream flows round a rock.
Eventually, the swarm was over, and the harbour was once again wreathed in silence. The urchins remained motionless, and my ears pricked up as another sound slowly became obvious. Again, a scratching sound, but different to before. This was more like a clattering of forks on a plate. There soon followed a smell as of something dredged up from the dark deeps of the ocean floor, rank, like a whale carcass left to rot. I felt my stomach twist and spasm, as I fought to hold down its contents.
Still I couldn’t see, so I stole closer, despite the nauseating stench. As I moved towards the children, I could see them, more clearly, drenched in fear, their pale faces frozen in place. Looking out over the harbour, over the inky darkness of the Thames I finally saw the reason why. The waters were shallow as the tide started to ebb, revealing dark, oozing mud banks. There, coming from the river, a sight out of any nightmare, but I assure you I was wide awake, and this was no dream! A cast of crabs was scuttling towards us, but these were no ordinary crabs. It was hard to judge precisely, but I would hazard a guess that each was the size of a large dog. I was suddenly thankful for the gloom and lack of direct moonlight, as I didn’t want to see just what was coming closer and closer, and yet I found myself transfixed.
In the middle of that blasphemous group stood a most singular individual. Vaguely humanoid in shape, the being was tall and somehow misshapen. Covered in rotting clothing, the thing walked with the aid of a long staff, something akin to a shepherd’s crook. Before it could come any closer, the children burst into life, throwing the corpses they had collected over the side of the jetty, and onto the dark mud. Each corpse landed with a wet splat, and the crabs pounced on the bodies. I admit, it was at this point that I did look away, for I couldn’t bear the sight of what was surely an unholy feast. Even so, as I turned my back, I could hear the sound of flesh being rendered and noisily eaten, and I believe my stomach finally gave way.
After what seemed like an impossibly long time, the repulsive noises finally came to a close, and the scuttling sounds receded back into the depths of the Thames. I dared to examine what remained, and felt my heart freeze. The tall being was still there, looking up from the mud-flats to precisely where I was stood. I couldn’t see its face, but I felt sure it was looking at me. I felt as though freezing cold water had been thrown over me, and I found myself fixed to the spot, unable to move. Thankfully, the being slowly turned, and hobbled slowly back into the river, until it was no longer visible. Only then did the life return to my limbs, and I felt my entire body sag with relief. I started to wonder what it was that was down there on, and now in the river. How did it breathe? Was it human? Why did it walk surrounded by huge, corpse-eating crabs? My head swam with impossible questions that my brain could not answer.
I know not how long I stood there, pondering the imponderable. I was brought out of my reverie by a tugging of my coat sleeve. Looking down, it was one of the urchins. Her face was strangely beatific, especially after the horrors I had witnessed. Her accent was thick and coarse, speaking in a thick dialect that I shan’t trouble you gentlemen with here. Our conversation went something like the following.
“What are you doing ‘ere, mister?” she asked.
“Erm, well, I was following you,” I answered truthfully enough.
“Why?”
“I was curious and then…well,” and I found I couldn’t finish the sentence as the recent ragged memory of those crabs came back to me.
“Ahhh, you saw him then,” she replied, looking out over the river. Dawn was slowly breaking, and a mist was coming off the river. A few gulls flew overhead, squawking in their vulgar way.
“Yes, I did. And them.”
“We calls him the Shepherd,” she ventured.
“Him?” I asked, though I knew who she was referring to. “Yeah. See, he shepherds those crabby things. We feeds ‘em so they don’t get too angry. We live near ‘ere, and it wouldn’t do for them things to get too angry.”
I could see her logic. I shuddered as I imagined what those things would do if angry.
“So you feed them the dead?” I asked.
“Well, the Shepherd come to us, and promised us a new life if we did, but we didn’t believe him. We knew if he didn’t get what he wanted, the new life for us would be a dinner for the crabs.”
There was some other conversation, and some of the others children wandered over to add their pennies of wisdom to the pot. I believe one of the older girls offered me some service of a more intimate nature, so I quickly made my excuses and, after paying them for directions, was able to make my weary way home.
As you can imagine, I couldn’t rest or settle. My mind kept seeing those crabs, and thing they called the Shepherd. I started to ponder more and more on what the girl had meant by a new life that the Shepherd had offered. It seemed to me more than just a veiled threat to keep his flock fed, as I now considered those crabs to be. A strange, vile flock, but a flock nonetheless. I rested fitfully on the couch, barely able to eat or drink. My man brought some vitals, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I merely pecked at the food like a chicken.
I vowed to see the Shepherd again, but why I couldn’t say. My stomach still churned at the memory of the sound made by those distorted crabs feasting, and yet the Shepherd had taken hold of my mind and I could think of nothing else.
That night, I stole down to the docks once more and attempted to retrace my previous steps. By sheer luck, I found myself at that deserted jetty once again. Unlike the night before, the sky was clear, a swollen moon shedding its gibbous light over the scene. The tide was already out, the reeking mud-flats fully exposed. I could make out all manner of refuse, but the scene of the previous night’s feast was clean. Not even a single bone remained in place, and I began to wonder as to my sanity. Had I imagined it all? After all, giant crabs being herded across the River Thames made no sense.
I sat down on the jetty under that yellowing, cankerous moon. Dangerous as it may seem, I think I must have dozed off, or dropped into a trance of some description, as I suddenly became aware of the stench from the night before. Senses instantly on guard, I realised with horror that the Shepherd was in front of me, closer than before. How long he had been there, I couldn’t say, but there he was. Unlike last night, I could clearly see what was standing before me. Taller than the average man, but still humanoid, he leant against his crook as a few large crabs scuttled around his legs, no doubt in search of a tasty treat. His clothing was soaking wet, dripping a black ichor that stank of dead fish. I could see things moving inside the tattered robes, as he casually fished out a black eel, throwing it to the crabs who fought briefly for the morsel. His skin was pale and mottled, almost purple with dark blue veins marbling his arms. Seaweed and barnacles littered his clothes and skin, and small crabs scurried over his body.
As I looked up to his face, for the second time in as many days, it was as though a shard of ice pierced my very being. He was staring directly at me, and had probably been doing so for some time. His eyes were clouded a thick milky white, and I wondered if he was blind. Yet the way those scummy orbs followed me made me doubt this assumption. His mouth was a thin cruel line that opened into a smile, a smile I wish I hadn’t seen. Thin teeth, like those of a shark crowded that mouth. And it was then he spoke.
Water trickled out of his mouth as he talked, and my brain reeled as I tried to focus on what he was saying. Alas, I cannot, or will not, recall that conversation. The only thing I clearly remember him saying was The Shepherd needs his flock, but the flock has to change its ways to see the way” His voice was somehow wet, gurgling, like a drain, and even now I can feel my skin crawl as I think of it.
Finally, he stopped his insane liturgy, and held a long arm out towards me. Without thinking, I reached out and he put something in my hand. I felt his skin then, cold and wet, just as I knew it would be. Even now I fancy I can smell his flesh on me, as when you’ve handled fish too long.
Without another word, he turned and walked back into the Thames as before, those peculiar strides taking him further and further out until he was no longer visible. The moon was still above, but had begun to sink down, stars twirling around it as it began its descent.
I stayed put on that jetty, trying to make some sense of my experiences. I looked at my hand and examined what the Shepherd deposited there. Coins, and no small amount. Larger than any I had seen, but green with age. Some were more corroded than others, but they all looked rare and expensive. I put the majority in my pocket, keeping one out that I examined in the waning moonlight. The damp chill air seeped into my bones, and my joints ached with it, but still I remained where I was, turning the coin over and over, willing it to tell
me its secrets.
At the first light of dawn, I stood up with a groan, my spine protesting at the sudden movement. Seagulls were already voicing their displeasure at the morning, and a light mist rose from the river. As the day began, I sloped off to my residence. Making my weary way up the stairs, I couldn’t even muster the energy to undress, merely collapsing on the bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I know not what time I awoke. At some point, my man must have paid me a visit, as I was at least partially undressed and under the sheets. On the bedside table were the coins the Shepherd had handed to me, and I shuddered. For on waking I thought my encounter merely some fevered dream. But the presence of those damnable coins proved, once and for all, that the Shepherd was real.
It was here that Shadwell stopped and reached for his glass. His hand was shaking, so I picked up his glass for him and handed it over. Our hands brushed and he jerked back, almost spilling his brandy. He fixed me a glare with those beady eyes for a second too long to be comfortable, and took a hefty draught of his drink before lapsing into silence.
“Well, Shadwell,” said Pickman after a moment, “That was a fine tale. Wasn’t it gentlemen?”
A murmur of assent met this statement, and I found myself nodding along. Tales of street urchins, abandoned jetties, flesh eating crabs and a strange mysterious creature were indeed components of a fine tale.
“Can you remember anything of what the Shepherd said?” young John Dingman asked. We all leaned closer to Shadwell, curious as to what he might say.
Shadwell remained silent for a moment or two, his right hand absently rubbing his bandaged left . As I peered at him, I noticed once again his eyes seeming to be darker than usual, possessing an almost queer independent motion. It seemed he wasn’t going to venture any more information that the evening, but after a moment or two, he continued.
“I can’t be sure,” he started, somewhat hesitatingly. “It seemed like such a long time ago, even though it was just a few days past. Alas, I don’t remember, but here, take a look at these and see what you think.”
He reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of coins that he scattered onto the small table by the fire. As he had said, they were large and mottled with a curious green staining. Olmstead wasted no time and picked one up, straight away putting it in his mouth to bite down on it. Examining his teeth marks, he gleefully exclaimed the authenticity of the gold coins. The rest of us followed suit, laughing and picking up a coin or two. Pickman abstained, and watched us quietly, a small sad smile playing over his lips.
“Keep them if you like, I have plenty,” said Shadwell, “Besides, I don’t think I’ll need them anymore.”
“Whatever do you mean, man?” I asked. It seemed damned cryptic, after all.
“Well, the Shepherd…” started Shadwell, and then paused.
“Yes,” prompted Pickman, “what about the Shepherd?”
“Is a Shepherd a shepherd without a flock?” he answered, with a question that prompted no answers.
He would be drawn no more on the matter, and light-hearted debate as to who this Shepherd was, and the nature of those large crabs. Many theories were tested and expatiated, each more outlandish than the last. Soon, it was the turn of the next speaker, and attention focused once more on a single figure, stood before the fire, expounding their recent weird adventure.
For myself, however, I continued to reflect on Shadwell’s story. It all seemed so far-fetched, and yet, Shadwell was not the sort for poetic fantasies. I must have drunk a little more brandy than usual, as I began to crave a drink of water. Specifically, lightly salted water. No sooner did I acknowledge this, than I thought back to that moment as Shadwell and I brushed hands. I had felt something rough on his hands, and it only then occurred to me what it reminded me off. Maybe it was the craving of the salt water, and memories of childhood trips to the sea, but his hand had felt like the rough barnacles one finds in rock pools or on the underside of an old boat. And then, the final horror settled into place. His hand, his bandaged hand… Even though it was fully swaddled in clothe, even now I fancied I recognised the shape obscured within. Not that of a hand, but that of a claw. The claw of a crustacean, impossibly on the arm of a man.
I shuddered, the hairs on my neck raising. The urge for salt water came back, and my hand felt the coin Shadwell had given, secreted in my pocket. As I took it out, did I spot a small white growth on my hand? A tiny barnacle? I thought back to what Shadwell had said.
“The Shepherd needs his flock, but the flock has to change its way to see the way…”