by Steven Welch
The heat was rough, but he’d known worse. He shed the thick leathers he’d worn for protection in Petra and was now a ghost in the flowing white robe known by the Bedouin as a thobe. Taariq’s green eyes shined out from the keffiyeh that covered his head. His backpack held everything else, his thick leathers, his arsenal, some water and scraps of food.
He carried nothing to trade. He stole what he needed.
There was a light breeze, like the air from an open oven door. Had he gotten to town before the girl? He had tried to make that happen by pushing himself and his horse but he wasn’t sure if he’d been fast enough.
She was a mystery. If she’d done half the things that he’d been told then he wouldn’t have been surprised if Elise St. Jacques simply sprouted wings and flew to Aqaba.
The walk into the oldest part of town didn’t take long. Soon enough Taariq was passing along the narrow alleys and roads where there were once markets and shops.
There was a time long ago when the world was thick with people. Some of these people would travel from place to place and seek amusements. They would travel in the cars or buses. They would travel across the sea in great boats and these boats were cities with places to eat and shop and pray and celebrate. There were even lakes built into the giant boats. Imagine, swimming on the sea in a giant boat. These people who traveled for no good purpose were called tourists and these dusty alleys and roads and markets and shops were once full of them. Taariq and his parents had once been travelers like that, tourists, and looking back on it he felt sick.
They were fools. Now they were dead fools.
A shadow passed overhead and Taariq flinched. Sky Krill. The swarm was a dozen meters wide, a twisting and undulating black blob of flying creatures no bigger than a man’s tooth that swooped and soared above the old rooftops. They didn’t seem to notice him but Taariq remained still just in case. The Sky Krill were unpredictable and quick. If hungry, they could strip the flesh from Taariq’s bones before his skull hit the ground. For a moment he considered dropping the horse meat as a distraction.
Fortunately, the Sky Krill had a weakness and a purpose.
“Go away,” shouted Taariq. The swarm trembled. He clapped his hands together as hard as he could and the swarm scattered in a million directions then reformed in a writhing black globe. The krill flew off and as they did Taariq heard his own voice shouted back at him. “Go away!”
He smiled. They were useful little things sometimes. Sound frightened Sky Krill but they could also store what they heard and repeat it. If the swarm flew through a storm they would mimic the sound of thunder. You could shout into a swarm of the things and they would repeat it perfectly, carrying your message along the winds. Within a day the words would fade, erased from the bug’s short memories.
Taariq watched the swarm fly off toward the sea. His words flew with them and echoed until they were too distant to hear.
ISLE D’OUESSANT
This island was the westernmost tip of France, a tiny crag of rock and green once known for a lighthouse and for a specific breed of sheep and for fishermen who went to sea for weeks at a time. That was long ago. The lighthouse was brought low by the events of The Turn, the sheep were dead, and the population of Isle d’Ouessant was now reduced to just two.
The flying shrimp that made the island home did not bite nor did they sting but they were tasty in soup and wonderful when sautéed in their own fat. Their shells were useful. The carapace could be boiled in the fresh clean well-water to make a stock. They could also be buried in the rich soil of Isle d’Ouessant and thus bring even more nutrients to the land. They were plentiful and simple to catch with the skein net. The flying shrimp had many uses and their schools became even more common when the island was an island once again.
Hemi, one of the two inhabitants, stood tall on the dark ground of the field and let the wind and rain lash him as he dug his shovel under a stone as large as a hen. He was lean with dark hair that dangled in dreadlocks over broad shoulders. His boots were muddy and his rain slick shed water in little rivers. Hemi shoved the metal hard under the stone and lifted. The stone made a sucking sound as it was freed from the thick mud but Hemi did not hear it over the white noise of the storm.
His hands were strong from all the work of the island and he had no trouble lifting the stone out of the ground. Hemi dropped it into the metal wheelbarrow just as a flash of distant lightning made white the slate gray morning sky.
He counted quietly to himself as he stood with his metal shovel next to the metal wheelbarrow on a wide flat field where he was by far the tallest object.
Ten seconds passed before thunder rumbled. Hemi shook the rain out of his dreadlocks and slammed the shovel hard into the ground. He walked toward the warm, flickering candlelight of a small stone building that was barely visible in the rain.
His boots sank into the mud. He stopped and turned his broad face to the sky. Hemi opened his mouth and let the raindrops hit his tongue. His eyes were shut for a moment then they opened as the morning was once more lit by lightning.
What was that?
Hemi’s hands clenched into fists and his heart jumped in his chest.
The storm clouds were low and the color of dirty ice. Something large flew below those clouds and Hemi had seen its silhouette in the distance against the lightning flash. He held his hand above his eyes to shield them from the rain and kept watch.
He couldn’t see. Eight seconds. Thunder.
A flash.
There it was again. A school of sky jellies?
Hemi made his way quickly toward the little building but he kept his eyes on the spot where he would have sworn that he had seen sky jellies and something else besides. He had been on the island for five years so he knew his way and could watch the sky without fear of tripping or falling over something. Hemi had plowed and cleared the fields of Isle d’Ouessant many times since he had arrived.
Another flash of lightning.
Hemi saw the thing revealed again. So difficult to say for sure in the storm but it seemed several of the horrible sky jellies flew in an odd formation with something larger held in their midst.
Were they escorts? For what thing would sky jellies be escorts?
Hemi moved slower than he’d have liked in the boots and the mud.
Six seconds then thunder.
He was taking big strides and when he tripped over something hidden in the mud, he took a hard fall.
Hemi rarely spoke but he cursed then and got back to his feet as quickly as he could.
His boot was still twisted under a white stick, no, a bone. He cursed again and wrenched free. Hemi grabbed the bone and continued on. His eyes were still on the skies. The bone was long and thick and felt cold in his hand. Probably the leg of a cow. He hoped and prayed that it was just the leg of a cow. He had cleared much worse from the soil over the years.
Hemi had seen what those devils could do, and he had seen it firsthand. There had been few over the island in the past several years and he had not missed them. The creatures of The Turn still haunted Hemi’s nightmares.
Another flash of lighting and he did not bother to count seconds until the thunder. Yes, it was a school of several of the creatures and they seemed to fly in formation around another, larger object. They were distant, and they were soaring to the east just below the slate gray clouds. There was no chance they would notice a little man on a little island in the stormy Atlantic but Hemi still moved as quickly as he could toward the stone building with the oil lamps in the windows.
The door opened as he approached. An aged woman stood in the door’s frame under a wooden sign that read “The Sheep and The Oyster” in French. She regarded Hemi in the white light of a lightning flash. This was Madame de Laclos and she held a book in a bony hand, a Bob Morane adventure. Hemi stood on the doorstep with eyes wide, dripping with mud and rain, a long leg bone in a shaking hand.
“You’re a sight. Did you finish so early?”
He shook
his head “no” and took Madame de Laclos by the hand. Hemi led her out and into the cool of the storm. He pointed back at the sky. The old woman squinted her pale blue eyes.
The terrible, strange thing that Hemi had seen was distant but there, a speck that soon disappeared.
“Now we’ll have something to discuss over lunch and perhaps beyond. That’s what we’ve needed, Hemi, a good mystery. A rumor. A subject to debate. A topic of conversation for God’s sake.”
Hemi did not take his eyes from the sky.
“Drop the femur on the stoop and go finish your chores.”
A flash of lightning and the thunder came right after in a roar that shook their skin.
“Or, just drop the femur on the stoop and come inside until the storm passes. You’ve seen stranger days, Hemi,” said Madame de Laclos.
Hemi nodded agreement.
The shadow of the strange zeppelin of air jellies and horror captained by The Dream Butcher and The Truth became one with the darkness of the distant storms to the west and then disappeared as Hemi the Gardner of Isle d’Ouessant stepped into the little cottage for a rest.
THE OLD SHOP
It was night in Aqaba.
Taariq heard the noise from blocks away but did not recognize the sound as music at first.
He walked the center of the small road of broken asphalt that led down to the shore and the sound came to him as a harsh whisper and then loud enough to feel. He shook his head and stopped. Taariq remembered music from when he was a child but it had no meaning to him now. The noise bothered him.
He spit and moved on towards the sea. The moonlight on the street was enough to see by. There had been fires and some shops were damaged at some point in the past. Here and there were bullet holes, fire marks, and dark stains. No bones or skeletons, at least not on the street, so there had been some cleanup here. Not every city or town or village was tidied. Taariq cleared his share of bones from his time on the road but he did not do so out of any sense of duty or sacred concerns. He didn’t like the looks of them. That was all. No need to have the memory of the dead lingering about. No purpose to that.
The road opened into a plaza that looked out over the silver moonlit gulf beyond. Taariq stopped for a moment to take in the view and the breeze.
The Gulf of Aqaba was a wide bay bordered on the east by the desert and on the west by Israel’s little beach town of Eilat. The mountains were close and further along as the gulf moved out towards the Red Sea there was Egypt to the west and beyond that Saudi Arabia to the east. There was a street that ran along the shore and it was bracketed by shops and restaurants and hotels. Some hotels were massive towering buildings while others were more modest.
There was an orange glow that came from a seaside hotel a few blocks to his left.
That was the target.
He looked about for a few minutes and found a little gift store that was tucked away down a narrow alley. The sand and debris that lined the alley floor was undisturbed and thick. Nobody ever came back here. Taariq ducked in.
The shop was a single narrow room with cluttered shelves. There were paper cards that were pictures of this place and others. There were little objects of art and useless paintings and images. There were bins of plastic discs he knew held music and other nonsense. There were piles of useful items like bags and rugs but even those were needlessly, stupidly painted and decorated and colored.
A waste. Taariq picked up a little glass jar that held colored sand. What purpose did this thing have? He smashed it against the stone floor and ground the glass with the heel of his boot.
“How did it feel when they came for you?” His voice was a rasp in the darkness.
How had it felt at The Turn of The World when those things had come pouring through holes and devoured whatever and whoever they had found. Mr. And Mrs. Shopkeeper must have shit themselves with fear on that day when the monsters came and the ocean was drained away.
Taariq found a framed family photograph on the wall behind the cash register. A heavy man and his heavy wife and two heavy children.
Oh. You’re the shopkeeper.
Too much food and stupidity. By moonlight he could see their fat smiles and their clean clothing and their clear eyes. Probably not such a happy family when the monsters came into your shop and slaughtered you. Probably not a happy family then. Probably a screaming family reaching out to each other in terror. Your little paintings and toys hadn’t saved you from being eaten.
Taariq took a deep breath. Need to calm down. Need to be clear.
There was no dried blood stain in the shop. The gifts and trinkets were neatly lined along the shelves. This family hadn’t even been here or if they were they hadn’t been slaughtered in their little store.
But they died just the same. Taariq was sure of it. Died for no good reason and dead without having learned a thing. Died without knowing The Truth.
He felt his pulse begin to slow.
Good. No need to get crazy.
“Hello.”
The voice, quiet and in Arabic, startled him. Taariq turned. The little girl made no sound as she had come to him in the darkness of the old store. Anna, no older than ten and covered in dirty robes. Her eyes were wide and cold.
“You scared me,” he said. Anna didn’t move, she just stood near him and stared.
“Then you’re stupid,” she said, her voice a whisper in the stillness.
“I found the girl. She did that thing that we wanted and she’s come back. She’ll be looking for you, I guess. Now what?”
Anna shrugged.
“Pay me,” she said.
Taariq frowned.
“What if I don’t pay?”
“Then you would be number twelve.”
“What does that mean?”
Anna held up her thin fingers and counted off one by one until she reached twelve. Then she pulled back her robe, and she showed the eleven white scars that lined the dark brown skin of her arm.
“You would be number twelve. Each one got easier, you know, and I had more fun each time so you would be the slowest one ever. I might take days to do it all and you wouldn’t be happy.”
Taariq’s stomach flipped. The girl’s eyes were dead, and she looked like she might be about to smile.
“Here,” he said and handed her a leather pouch.
“What is it?”
“Some bullets, some jewelry, and some cans of food. That’s the agreement, right? Now you need to finish your part of the deal.”
Anna didn’t say a word, she just turned and ran off into the darkness.
Taariq found a plastic bin where he could store the horse meat. He changed out of his desert robes and back into his leather coat, flannel shirt, and thin jeans. He pulled a dark green hat onto his head. He kept his pistols and his ammo belt but dropped his hatchet and his rifle into another plastic bin.
The bins would keep his things safe and hidden until needed. Taariq stepped back out onto the main street that ran along the seaside and began to make his way towards the orange light and discordant noise that bled from the hotel in the distance.
THE CHILD WITH MANY ARMS
Elise did not return to her apartment when she arrived from the desert back into Aqaba. It was late in the evening but not too late for a drink and some food. She hitched Splatter and walked into the place. Her boot heels clicked on the tiles. The smell of cherry-flavored tobacco was thick in the air at Khoury’s and it lingered where it touched.
She liked the feel of the ocean breeze against her face. Elise sat on a stool at the bar with the sea at her back. The moon was over her shoulder and beyond that the silver expanse of the gulf. Her jacket and vest were draped over the back of the bar chair and her thin cotton shirt was cool with sweat. Her hat hung on her back from its string. The backpack was at her feet and the Octo-Thing slept inside.
Her hand bled through the rough bandage of torn cloth but she did not pay it any attention.
There were a few people left in the bar b
ut most had moved to the pool deck to smoke and drink and talk. They played music until the electricity had run low. The contraption would need to recharge for a day or two before it had enough juice to power a show again.
Most of the candles were extinguished but there was an oil lamp suspended above the bar. Her skin was golden in the dim light.
Elise sipped her water and stared into the long mirror behind the bar. Her face was pocked with a few fresh pimples. Dirty with streaks where there had been sweat. She dipped her shirt sleeve into her cup and wiped away the grime. Her hair was as tall as her finger was wide. She rubbed her hand through the bristles.
“Hey.”
Anna stood next to Elise.
“Wow. You’re quiet,” said Elise.
“I watched for you. I saw you ride into town just now and I followed you here. I followed you because you owe me.”
“Really?”
“Did you find my flowers?”
Elise smiled a thin smile that barely showed teeth.
“Hi, good to see you again, I hope you didn’t suffer much on your long journey into the desert where you met men who tried to kill you but clearly you survived so that’s awesome,” Elise said.
Anna stared.
“Sorry. That was sarcasm. Yes, I found them.”
Elise reached down into her backpack and pulled out the painting, rolled into a tube and wax sleeve.
Anna opened the stiff old canvas and looked for a moment at the Van Gogh. There was no expression on her face and she didn’t seem to breathe.
“Thank you,” she finally said.
“You’re welcome. Now what? Maybe you should stay here in town. It’s safe here.”
Anna shook her head “no.” She handed the canvas back to Elise.
“You’re the one who saves things. Save these.”