Crikey!

Written by Christi Smith Hayden

Plot by Christi Smith Hayden and Stephen R. Sobotka, Jr.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was originally published in the Phoenix Gate Anthology by The Gathering of Gargoyles 2004, edited by Christine & Tim Morgan.

DISCLAIMER: Steve & Terri Irwin and their associates appear without permission and belong to themselves. The crocodile research project is a real, on-going study in cooperation with the Q.P.W.S. and Australia Zoo. All characters from the animated show "Gargoyles" are copyrighted to Disney and Buena Vista Television.

Modern Day, Queensland, Australia

The camera zoomed in on a stocky blonde man carelessly dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts as he crouched on a river bank. He grinned rakishly and began talking in a quiet yet excited tone of voice.

"G-day, mates! I'm Steve Irwin and we're here on th' Cape York peninsula in Queensland, Australia, followin' up on a research project that we're doin' with the Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service," the popular Australian herpetologist earnestly told his viewers behind the camera. "Last September, we caught four crocs living here on the Nesbit River and fitted them with satellite transmitters – can you believe it? Crocs on satellite?" His eyes went wide with astonishment as he threw his hands open. "When we were here last, the fellas we'd tagged – Banana, Nesbit, Bob, and SuperCroc – were all bachelors livin' th' high life but we think that maybe some sheilas have moved in during the breedin' season. Th' boys might have got a little too frisky," he smirked at the camera, "because some of our trackin' devices have gone on th' fritz. Let's check it out!"

Stepping gingerly through the tall grass, the world-famous crocodile hunter made his way carefully along the muddy riverbank as the camera tracked his progress. He froze and carefully picked up a hefty stick. "Looky what we've got here!" he called out. "Here's a sure sign of a lady's presence – a crocodile nest!" He looked around carefully. "Terri? D'ye see any sign of th' mother out there?"

The camera swung around to focus on Steve's wife, Terri Irwin sitting in the boat. Pretending the cameraman besides her wasn't there, the pony-tailed brunette focused on the task at hand and scanned for the tell-tale signs of crocodiles in the area. "There's a couple of dark spots under the water," she reported, "but nothing big enough to be a breeding female. Wes says that he's found Banana and Bob farther downstream."

"All right then," Steve said as he began to crouch down by the messy heap of decaying leaves. "I'm just gonna have a peep and do a quick egg count, just so we can record it." He paused dramatically, looking around carefully before kneeling by the nest. "I'll have to be quick – mummy crocs can be vicious when they're guarding their eggs."

"It's all clear from here," Terri commented, her voice tense.

Steve parted the damp leaves, revealing a large cluster of pale green ovoids. "Gorgeous! There's a fair dinkum of eggs here, at least a dozen here on top and probably more deeper down in th' nest. If we were back at th' Australia Zoo, I'd be collectin' these beauties but I'll just cover it back up and leave it as I found it." He began to replace the rotting foliage when he frowned and reached down past the eggs. "Unbelievable!"

"What is it, Steve?" Terri prompted. "One of the transmitters?"

"Whoa!" Steve took out a shield-shaped object as big as his hand. "What a shocker! I've never found something like this before - it's some kind of carving, maybe an aboriginal artifact. There's a kind of a bird on it - " He reached down and swished it in the muddy river water. "Yeah, it's definitely a bird of some kind and it's -"

"Steve!" Terri called out suddenly. "Steve! Look out!"

Bursting out of the underbrush higher on the bank behind Steve, the ten-foot form of a charging crocodile launched herself towards him. Growling through open jaws, it hit the red clay mud with alarming speed.

"Whoa!" Steve twisted away to avoid the savage teeth, but his boots slipped in the mush surrounding the nest. In a windmill of arms, he hit the water with a splash of muddy spray and sank out of sight. Hissing, the crocodile plunged in after him, intent on defending her eggs.

Under the water, Steve blinked rapidly to clear his eyes, only to see the reptile mother rocketing towards him. Heart hammering, Steve tried to kick away from the gaping jaws in a vain attempt to escape.

At that moment, the object still gripped in his fist began to glow with a burning light that illuminated the silt stirred up by his movements. A ball of reddish-fire surrounded the crocodile hunter, making the massive reptile swerve away from him in alarm.

Steve barely had time to think when the ball suddenly winked out of existence... taking him along with it.

Back on the boat, both Terri and the camera man looked on in utter horror as the only thing they saw rising to the surface were bubbles of air... and nothing else.

"Blimey!" exclaimed the cameraman. "Where'd he go?"

Terri leaned over the edge of the boat. "Steve? STEVE!"

County Down, Ireland, 455 AD

The dark green shadows of the velvet hills were thrown abruptly into sharp contrast as the fiery vortex of the Phoenix Gate dropped a sodden figure in khaki above the middle of a well-trod road. Night birds squawked indignantly and a few fluttered away in alarm.

"Ooomph!" Steve took a moment to catch his breath and look around. "What a shocker!" he muttered to himself. "One minute I'm underwater and now… where am I?" Still panting, he glanced around. Instead of the heat of an Australian midday, he was beginning to shiver from the chill night's air. The red clay on his boots contrasted with the loamy black soil beneath his feet.

"One thing's for sure, mate," he told himself, "you're definitely not in Oz anymore!" He stood up and looked at the strange device in his hand. The mud that had obscured it had disappeared as if by magic and Steve could see that it was a palm-shaped shield of royal blue with a golden bird on it. "Weird – what's happened to me?"

"Hello?"

Steve turned and saw a bearded old man coming towards him wearing a homespun brown robe. He was carrying a torch and beyond him on the hilltop, Steve could see a small stone hut with light shining through the open doorway. "G'day, mate!" he called cheerfully. "Th' name's Steve Irwin. I seem t' be a bit lost here."

"Aye, that ye are," said the old man as he came closer. He looked over Steve's wet clothes and gaped at him in horrified disbelief. "What, were ye robbed? They left ye in naught but yer drawers, man!"

"No…," Steve said slowly. The curious way that the old man spoke and the way he was dressed had him confused. "I did take a bit of a tumble. I'm not quite sure how I got here."

"Ah, ye ran afoul o' a highwayman then." He nodded and gestured towards the hut. "Ye'd best come inside, good sir, or ye'll catch yuir death out here."

"And you are--?"

"Ye may call me Brother Patrick, my son. I served God here in Ireland for over thirty years but I chose to step down from my duties and retire here to County Doone." The priest ushered Steve through a small garden of vegetables and herbs. "Now I devote myself to solitude and prayer."

Steve winced. "I'm sorry t' be intrudin' here, Brother Patrick."

"Nae, these are evil times, an' I'll nae turn anyone away." There was a low call down in the valley, like a badly-tuned trumpet. "D'ye hear? That's th' headsman callin' curfew. Ye best hurry inside.

The eldery priest's hut was furnished simply. A wide fireplace took up most of one wall with only a few pieces of furniture. Steve was invited to take the only chair while Patrick bustled about, fetching him a dusty blanket smelled like a goat and a steaming mug of spiced cider. The thing that struck Steve odd was the lack of modern comforts – no electricity, no phones, just the basics. True, he'd heard that people on religious retreats did without such things but everything looked homemade, from the stoneware mug in his hands to the wrought iron pot boiling on a hook over the fire. He felt as if he had not only been transported half a world away but he was in another time as well. His host seemed nervous so he decided to break the ice.

"So tell me, brother," Steve began good-naturedly, "what's the curfew for?"

"The fact o' the matter, Master Irwin, is this: it's simply nae safe t' be out after dark," the old priest said, sitting down on the narrow cot nearby. "For many weeks now, there's been a fearsome beast lurking in the marshes near the lake."

Steve's ears perked up. "Is there now? What kinda beast?"

"They say it's a great white serpent," Patrick said earnestly. "I caught sight of it myself once in the wee hours before dawn, when I rose for Lauds. My eyes are not as sharp as they once were but even I could not mistake the sinuous way it moved."

"It's a snake, then? How big?"

"I've been told that it's twice as big as a man or more. The shepherds lost several sheep to it before they moved the herds up into the hills. I think that's why the wyrm's been seen closer and closer to the village. The folk around here are afraid to step foot out of their houses. If it could take a sheep, what's t' stop it from taking a small child?"

"Too right!" Steve pursed his lips and thought about the problem, idly twirling the shield-shaped talisman in his hands. "I've caught big snakes before. Maybe I should look into this for you."

"Master Irwin?" Patrick asked curiously. Steve looked up to see the old priest pointing at the thing in his hands. "What is that?"

"This? It's just some thing I found." He frowned. "It's weird -- I was back home one minute and outside your door the next."

"I think I may have an answer for ye," Patrick replied and rose to fetch a book from a wooden writing desk. The only other place that Steve had seen a book like it was in a museum – it was bound with a thick leather cover with brass inlays. The old priest opened it carefully and turned it to show a drawing of the very talisman that Steve had in his hand.

"Crikey! What is it?"

Patrick turned the book back so he could read it. "It says here that it is called th' Phoenix Gate. It's a magical talisman that can transport someone through time and space. An ancient Roman called the Mage wrote about it centuries ago."

"You don't say!"

"A passing traveler put this book in my hands years ago. I am no scholar but a simple man of faith so many of its mysteries are beyond me." The old priest smiled apologetically and ran his fingers along the page. "It says here that the Phoenix Gate can take its bearer back to their point of origin. I believe if ye keep it with ye, it may verra well take ye home again."

"Blimey, I hope so!" Steve slurped down the last of his cider and set his jaw determinedly. "You've done me a good turn, Brother Patrick, so I'll pay it back. I'm gonna go walkabout and find that big snake of yours."

"Master Irwin! It's too dangerous!"

"Naw, where I come from, that's what I do!" Steve said enthusiastically as he rose from the chair and shoved the Phoenix Gate in his pocket. "Snakes an' crocs are easier to hunt at night – just point me in th' right direction and I'll take it from there."

"Then, here—" Patrick opened a chest and took out another monk's robe, this one with a frayed hem. "Take my spare robe. The night is cold and you'll need this."

Gratefully, Steve put on the woolen robe which was faded black with age and put it on while Patrick gave directions. "Go down the wagon trail until you see a lone pine tree. There is a trail to the right that goes down to the lake. The wyrm is seen most often near a stone cairn on a finger of land going out into the water. You can see it easily from the trail."

"Ripper! Don't worry, brother," Steve said confidently, "I'll sort out that naughty li'l devil, you'll see!" He waved to the priest in the doorway as he headed down the road.

"Go with God, Master Irwin!"

It was his nose that led Steve to the first signs of the monster snake. Like most large reptiles, it couldn't digest its food once its body temperature dropped so it had been regurgitating its leftovers. Steve used a stick to poke through the charnel pile. "Weird," he commented to himself. "These carcasses are only partially digested. It's not killin' for survival; it's killin' for th' sake of killin.'"

"Truer words were never said."

Steve jumped up and turned to face a tall stranger with a drooping red moustache. He was dressed in a knee-length tunic with woolen cape and had golden armor in the form of gauntlets, grieves, and helm. His weapons were a great shield with a spike in the center and a glowing lance. For a minute, Steve wondered if he'd accidentally landed on a movie set and looked around for the cameras.

The warrior was sizing him up and frowning. "Are ye a priest, man?"

"Oh, the robe – I borrowed this from Brother Patrick," Steve commented. "I heard about th' snake problem you've been havin' around here. I've hunted them before so I thought I'd have a go at catchin' this one."

"This beast is nae like any other you've seen," the warrior said. "I am Cuchulain, son of Lugh, an' I've tracked th' Cromm-Cruach here from my lands in Ulster. The Death Wyrm and I are old foes."

"You've seen it then?" Steve asked anxiously. "What kind of snake is it? Brother Patrick didn't get a good look at it."

"Snake?" Cuchulain scoffed. "'Tis nearly three lengths of a man – pale and glistening like something dead and buried, with great fierce jaws and row upon row of sharp teeth. I doubt you've ever seen th' like!"

"I dunno about that, mate," Steve countered coolly, not liking Cuchulain's attitude. "I got an albino crocodile back home that would give your wyrm a run for its money. I've been wranglin' crocs since I was nine years old. If it's a reptile, I can catch it – count on it!"

Cuchulain narrowed his eyes beneath his helm. "I don't plan on catching it," he said bluntly and held out his lance. "I plan tae plant this in its guts for all th' harm it's caused these good people!"

"Hang on!" Steve protested. "You can't blame an animal for doin' what's natural. Let's capture it an' re-locate it where it won't hurt anyone."

"I'll re-locate its head to th' end of my spear!"

The terrified scream of a panicked horse split the night. Both men turned and began to run towards the sound. "Stay here," Cuchulain bellowed, moving surprisingly fast for a man wearing armor. "I'll deal with th' beast!"

Steve hiked the skirts of the monk's robe up around his knees and charged after him. "No way, mate! You're not leavin' me behind."

Pushing their way through a thicket, they came upon a frightening scene. A rider and horse had apparently stopped for water and the worm had attacked. All that remained of the horse was a bleeding carcass missing its head and right forequarters. The rider, a bearded man in a dark green tunic and leather jerkin lay pinned beneath it. He looked up at Cuchulain and Steve as they slid down the grassy slope towards him.

"For th' love of God, help me!" the rider called out hysterically. "It just went back into th' water! Free me before it comes back!"

"Here," Steve said, going around and grabbing the topmost hind leg, "you wedge that shield under an' lever th' body up while I pull."

"Be quick, man," Cuchulain snapped back as he put action to words. "Cromm-Cruach could be anywhere. She'd delight in th' chance t' kill us all!" He stepped hard on the shield and pushed as Steve pulled and the headless horse began to shift. The Irish warrior shouted at the trapped rider. "Hurry! We cannae hold it for long!"

Clawing at the soft earth, the hapless rider struggled free, his legs numb from the horse's weight on them but fear willing them to work. He crawled up the embankment several feet and rolled over to face his rescuers. "My thanks, good sirs!" he cried out. "When that hellish thing attacked, I thought I was—" His eyes widened and his pupils became pinpricks as he stared past the other two men. "LOOK OUT!"

Wrenching his great shield free, Cuchulain thrust it up and Steve got a distorted view of a large pale shape looming behind him. He dove to the right, landing in the muddy shallows with the monk's robe twisted about his legs. There was a loud brassy crash like a heavy weight striking a gong and Steve looked up to get his first clear view of Patrick's sheep-eating monster.

"Crikey!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Isn't she a beauty?"

Never in all his years as a herpetologist had Steve Irwin seen a creature like it. Cuchulain's Cromm-Cruach defied all classifications of reptiles that he knew of; instead of a snake, it resembled a giant insect larva with fierce mandibles and numerous small legs. It was the discovery of a lifetime, a truly new and original species. It gave a high-pitched yodeling roar and reared back as Cuchulain circled around it. His metal-tipped lance had been merely glowing before; now it burned with a fierce intensity.

"Thought ye'd gotten away from me, did ye?" Cuchulain called out as he blocked its escape route back into the lake. "I told ye there was nae place in Ireland that Gae Bolga couldna find ye!"

"Hang on!" Steve started to rise and tripped on the hem of his robe, splattering himself with black mud. Swearing colorfully, he peeled off the robe to stand back up in his everyday khakis. While Cuchulain had the creature distracted, Steve saw his opportunity. Using the dead horse for added height, he vaulted onto the back of the Death Wyrm as if it was a crocodile and wrapped its head in the borrowed robe. Muffled and almost human-like sounds emerged through the woolen cloth.

"Good man!" Cuchulain shouted approvingly. "She cannae attack what she cannae see!"

"Whoa!" The pale-skinned creature shrieked and rose up into the air in an effort to shake Steve loose. "Easy there, darlin'! We're not gonna hurt you!"

"Speak for yuirself!" Cuchulain blocked a tail swipe with his shield and jabbed at the monster with his lance. "Turn th' beast so I can get a clear shot!"

"Wait!" Steve cried out as the wyrm began to struggle. "We can take it alive! There's no—"

Before he could stop him, Cuchulain lunged in and plunged his burning spear into the monster, so unbelievably fast that it looked like a bolt of lightning. The Cromm-Cruach screamed like a woman and flung its body back, hurling Steve into the air like he was being shot from a catapult. As he sailed towards the lake, his body became rimmed with incandescent flames which consumed his body and blinked out in a flash of light.

"Curse you, son of Lugh," the wyrm cried out as it writhed in agony. "I will not end things this way! You will not defeat me!" The turgid pale body seemed to sink in on itself, turning first to a wraith-like woman with long flowing hair and then to pale green vapors which drifted away with the mists off the lake.

"'Struth!" The rider of the ill-fated horse had found the strength to stand and staggered to Cuchulain's side. He picked up the discarded robe. "Who was that brave priest? What happened to him?"

"I do not know," Cuchulain admitted, "but he mentioned the name 'Patrick.'"

"The old bishop that lives up th' trail from here?" The rider glanced up towards the mountain. "Then we have been blessed with a miracle, my friend! Only a saint could drive an evil thing like that away!"

"Indeed," Cuchulain agreed. "Perhaps that strange man was sent by the grace of good St. Patrick." He gazed out over the water. "Whoever he was, I hope he's on his way to a better place."

Modern Day, Queensland, Australia

The last few tiny bubbles rose to the surface of the water and the river was still. Frantically, Terri was using an oar to probe the area around the boat. The cameraman had put down his equipment and radioed for help. Wes and Brian had arrived in their boat and were exploring the far shore.

"Anything?" Terri called out.

"Nothing here," Wes answered as he used a long bamboo to poke under the bank's overhang. "Briano?"

The younger croc keeper had cautiously waded into the river for a croc's eye view. "Nope, nothing here either." He was keeping a watchful eye on the mother that had returned to her nest. "I don't think she did anything to him, Wes. She woulda stayed down longer."

Terri drew the dripping oar from the water. "Then where IS he?"

A sudden deluge of water swept over them as something heavy hit the surface of the river. Terri's boat rocked erratically and she and the cameraman had to scramble to keep it from capsizing. Spluttering, Steve's head emerged from the water and the rest of him followed.

"STEVE!" Terri reached out with the oar and pulled him towards the boat. "We couldn't find you! I thought –" Her voice caught in her throat. "Where have you been!"

Steve grinned like a naughty schoolboy.

"Crikey! Have I got a story t' tell you!"

Below him in the silt-filled waters of the Nesbit River, the Phoenix Gate drifted slowly down. An enormous crocodile attracted by all the commotion spotted it as it cruised along the bottom. It considered the strange object and slowly, casually opened its mouth and swallowed it. The Phoenix Gate slid down into the crocodile's stomach to join the ticking pocket watch besides it.

…tick …tick …tick

The End