The Fiend in the Reeds

 Laxenby was a devilish shot on the duck lakes. 

He never seemed to miss. Those damn wigeon and pochard must have hated the sight of him, the hunter who bagged the birds like no other.

His name had become a by-word for the lethal blast in those parts and not just any trophy graced his mantle;

The Fowl Cup no less, for the greatest shot in the flatlands, a cup which cost his co-finalist Smallish his life. When he lost he'd gone home and shot himself.

Foul play was rumoured during the rounds but in the end it was Hodgkin G. Laxenby Esq., former Captain of the King's Own, engraved on the silver.

Laxenby had even had a crack at trickier fayre: the tumbling Caspian tern, the obstinate Bittern and even the serenely rare Night Heron.

Nothing survived his god-given marksmanship. Nothing.

"Laxenby, old boy, are you not bored? Season over season we rent the same bland rooms, bed the same maids, hunt the same duck and win the same trophies! Isn't it time we moved on?"

Benson, his life-long friend from their childhood spent at Rillstaff Hall and no mean shot himself, simply aired what he'd been thinking for some time. There was no drama anymore, no bang for their buck. The success of the shoots had become tedious.

"What would you like us to do Benson? Put down our arms and fist fight with a few locals? How about that?"

Benson and Laxenby laughed and agreed to discuss the matter of the menial punting further in the Ringed Neck that evening.

"I couldn't help overhearing you chaps. Did you say you're looking for more challenging sport? More exciting shooting? More exciting than ruddy duck perhaps?"

"Indeed we are Sir! We are seeking quarry of a higher order, that which might just test us somewhat. Do you know of any?"

"Short of journeying to the Scottish glens and stalking stag I may just be able to proffer truly engaging firing in these very parts"

Laxenby eyed up the unusually interested local and saw an echo of something he simply could not name.

"Why are you so keen to aid us Sir? What might you want in return?"

"I Sir? I wish only to accompany you on the hunt. I am a mere novice but your own illustrious reputations precede you my good fellows."

Benson nudged their weapons with his foot by mistake and quickly reacted to catch the loaded rifles stacked against the booth from falling. A bad omen he thought but shrugged it off.

" So, what is this grand sport you speak of?"

"'Tis the Ribscrape Sir, the scecca of the Fiends' Reed"

"But that's just a legend! Pure hogwash! No-one's ever seen it!"

"I have Sir! With my own two eyes! I tell you, the Ribscrape is real and I was lucky to get out alive!"

"What the devil do you mean?"

"It was winter this year gone. I was poaching eels in the fen beck in the dead of night,  when I heard a scratching noise nearby. I froze and across the thick osiers a hellish dreadful gangling beast stretched out, it's prey gripped tightly in its talons, it's claws scraping away the skin of a sheep nabbed from the pastures. The animal screamed as the ribscrape flayed it alive, caressing the open rib-cage and snuffling our the steaming heart with its hateful beak. It was the worst, most terrible thing I have ever seen in my life Sir!"

The two listeners visibly flinched.

"Good God Man! It's enough to make the blood run cold!"

Laxenby and Benson looked at one another and downed their brandies, signalling the waitress for another round and one for their new found friend.

"So you know the location of this fiendish creature Sir?"

"I do! I will guide you!"

"Then let us agree to do this thing" said Laxenby raising his glass.

"A toast, a toast to greater sport, the thrill of the chase and the head of this scecca in my Hall!"

The pact made, the three men left the tavern and agreed to meet the following day at Rillstaff, where they made ready the provisions needed for the day's travel to Fiend's Reed and the night's expedition.

It was dusk when they reached the straight wall of the Fiends' Reed, the phragmites stood to attention in serried rows like pikemen of old, the curly heads seemingly bowed in tribute or indeed fear of the bed's foul queen Scecca the Ribscrape.

A sizable punt was chartered and supplies stowed including an arsenal of rifles and guns muscular enough to deal with any mythical beast or creature from Hell.

The two friends and their guide disembarked and as the sun set over the sea of reeds their lamps were lit and hung on the light-hooks, the yellow moving glow casting shadows across the boat and the channel they followed through the vegetation.

At first it was quiet but as the sun died the noise of the night rattled to life and the fen became a cacophony of gulps, trills and squawks.

Fireflies flitted among the serries like partygoers. Bulbous frogs eyed the threesome suspiciously from within the stalks, burping as they floated by like mortars. A dead dog lay still in the shallows, the flies having a field day with it's eyes.

Benson grimaced and was about to speak when ...

"Shhh!" Whispered the guide.

They stopped. A deathly silence had settled over the water. A mist rose and no sound could be heard whatsoever. No frogs, no flies, nothing. 

Then, suddenly they heard it, a stretching flap as if sails were being unfurled in the towering reeds. 

The leathery noise was getting closer and the two experienced shooters slowly steadied their rifles, fingers poised on the triggers ready for whatever was heading their way crawling through the stalks.

Benson's heart was beating uncontrollably against his ribs and in the dead stillness it pounded like a parade drum, drawing the beast ever closer he feared. 

Laxenby, the cup winner, was calm, resolute and prepped for the kill shot, his desire to hang the Stecca's head in his hallway driving him on.

All at once there appeared a creature so hideous, so heinous, that all three men stared as if the gates of Hell had opened.

"Scecca!" Whispered Laxenby.

"Mother of God in Heaven" mouthed Benson.

"The Ribscraper no less! I told you so!" Gloated the guide, whereupon he grabbed his rucksack and rifle and turned to the two friends.

"I will bid you both farewell. This is where I leave you to your fate. The Ribscraper will have you and at last you'll get your just deserts in its loathsome gut!"

"Who the hell are you?" Blurted Laxenby.

"I am James Smallish, son of Roger, the man you robbed of the Fowl Cup and the man you killed, my father! May you both rot in hell Laxenby and Benson, you murderous swines!"

At this, the guide clambered out of the punt and quietly entered the fen lake, pushing the boat closer to the reeds where the Scecca climbed down to greet them.

The Ribscraper was more than the fiend in the reeds, it was a denizen of the most hellish quarter, a thing from the deepest pit that somehow dwelt under God's sun and darkened this bucolic marsh with it's heathen skin.

It was poised between uprights, at least six feet across, gripping the titanic stalks with gigantic scarlet claws. It's body appeared to be an engorged hairless belly flanked by huge leathern wings, the sails of flesh making a repulsive flapping sound. It's feet were tipped with terrible talons and it's shoulders lethal spikes. 

But by far the worst, most malevolent feature of this fen devil was it's face, an almost soulful pair of intelligent eyes betwixt a massive and sickening beak, saliva dribbling from within dripping into the water below. 

The two men, frozen with fear, suddenly came to and aimed both barrels at this God-forsaken demon. 

Without warning the Scecca screamed and lunged forward with impossible speed, picking Benson off the punt like a doll.

"Bensonnnnnn!" Yelled Laxenby towards his friend, but it was too late. The foul thing dragged him into the reedbed, where it stared into the man's eyes, a fleeting second of recognition as Benson realised that this monster had once been human before it fell into the pit and crept out again.

The Scecca unbuttoned Benson's jacket and shirt revealing his heaving bare chest, his heart thumping like a death-knell, the beast lowering it's grotesque head to listen more closely, drool pouring over the man's body.

Benson knew he was about to die a most horrible death and began to scream at the top of his voice. 

"Laxenbyyyy! Runnnnnn!"

With a wing muffling his yelling and the listening done, the demon-bird, with a single razor-sharp claw, slit open the hapless Benson's chest, sliced down his breastplate and pulled open his ribcage like a bleeding flower. It scraped out his purple heart and swallowed it whole still beating.

Laxenby had heard his best friend's final cry and heeded his terrible warning. Turning the boat he quietly rowed in the direction of the bank where they had entered.

A shot rang out and though the lamplight Laxenby could see Smallish stood in an open clearing of marsh between the reeds firing his rifle straight at him. Shot-pellets were spraying past but the vengeful guide was no great marksman.

Laxenby aimed steady but before he could fire a vast dark bird-like demon leapt from the reedbed and smothered the helpless Smallish, from where he was pulled into the stalks to be devoured.

His foe's shrieks of agony as the Scecca opened him up were the last sounds that Laxenby heard before mooring the boat and running faster than he had ever done in his life away from that loathsome reedbed and the terrible fiend within.