by Zuni Chopra
‘Nobody’s seen one or they’d be dead!’ butted in the head policeman, his reason winning out over his current lack of uniform.
‘Enough!’ called the chief authoritatively, her hair slicing at the wind about her. ‘Arguing will achieve nothing. We need to determine, first, whether or not these creatures could potentially have been the cause. Whether they’re … real.’
‘Ha!’ came the sneering chuckle of the butcher. He was bitter, for the water had stolen his youth and his wife and his customers. ‘No one’s managed that in the last two hundred years. And you think a day of police investigation will give you an answer?’
Silence, for the first time, seemed queen.
A search party was set up: two female committee members; three fishermen; the butcher, who protested the entire way; and one odd, stiff young girl, the centre of much gossip about her drunken father, seemingly having slipped in when no one was looking. Each had been selected or approved by the chief, some, of course, for personal amusement. They circled the shores of the chunk of rock they called home, the eyes of the rest of the town upon them from quieted windows, crossbows and rusted guns clasped tightly within their hands. One circle. Nothing. Two circles. My, it was a hot afternoon. Three circles. Was that a flash on the horizon? Four circles. Okay, we’re going to need a boat.
The fishermen weren’t quick to contribute their vessels, but seemed to realize the gravity of the situation when the first committee member nearly burst her lungs yelling. So they set off, the unlikely party, the young girl remaining tight as a rusted spring in the corner, lips pressed together and legs twisted around each other. No one could get her to speak, really. Some muttered that she’d found her way into the crowd like a skeletal, slow-moving rodent, which she certainly resembled. Huge overbite, long, pale face, jagged, yellow teeth. And those eyes. Almost everyone in the town had either light or brown eyes. Light eyes were coveted; brown eyes were the norm. Her eyes were black. Whatever she’d lived through had darkened them to coal.
The sailboat bobbed aimlessly in the murky water. A large stick one of the fishermen had produced was now being used to push through the chartreuse sea, the sun blaring in his eyes so that he didn’t even notice they were going in circles again.
‘Let’s hope we get there soon,’ the second committee member chuckled, hoping to make light of the situation. ‘And then we’ll be able to go home and tell the town about what happened. Won’t that be nice?’
The butcher, who had not once lifted his eyes, suddenly gave a rough laugh, almost like a growl. ‘You’re out ’ere looking for the deadliest creature on the planet, and you’re talking about making it home by dinnertime?’
She was struck for a moment. ‘Well, there’s no proof at all that they’re real!’
‘Tell the schoolmaster that,’ snarled one of the older fishermen. ‘Tales of mermaids have surrounded my waters for years, but never has one of them had the guts to come up on land.’ He sniffed at the air, a bloodhound picking up a scent. ‘They’re getting stronger.’
A cave. That was what they saw first. ‘It’s not possible!’ gasped the younger fisherman. ‘We’ve been in this part of the sea for years. Years. That cave … that cave can’t exist!’
They changed course, moving slowly towards it, and the nearer they got, the shakier grew the old sailor’s hand until, finally, the younger had to take over from him. He sat down with a gasp, like the air had chilled him, and opened his mouth to speak, forever frozen.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ grumbled the first committee member, now rather cold and cranky.
‘Alright,’ replied her colleague, ‘we check the cave and if there’s nothing in there, we go back.’
No one responded, which she took to mean assent.
The edges of the boat knocked against the mouth of the grotto. The rock, it seemed, was glinting a deep purple and black, small gemstones within them shining like eyes glowing in the dark. The butcher rose and began trying to pluck them from the walls, not getting very far before they were out of his reach. Shadow was engulfing them now, and the orange–yellow light from the opening was growing thinner and weaker as sunset approached.
They sat in the damp and mist for several minutes, alert lion-watchers with impatient clicking shutters and blank stares, before the lady right at the back of the boat (the younger of the committee members, to be specific, but in this light it was impossible to tell) began to mumble. ‘See? Nothing at all to get so … worked up about. N-now we can go home and say that and—’
A tremor shook the boat. It was swift and silent and subtle, but it was enough. It heralded the first shower of magma from an awakened volcano.
‘Who’s there?’ called the butcher, standing up, though rather wobbly. ‘I warn you, we’re armed!’
He reached for the gently clinking scraps of metal at the bottom of the boat, drawing out a weathered hunting knife. The young fisherman rose, ready to claim his pistol.
All at once, a whirlpool of crystals began at the very front of the boat. From it rose the most beautiful and exquisite woman they’d ever seen. Her golden hair glistened as though it were fashioned from pearls. Her skin was so white, moonlight chafed in the face of it. Her eyes were a blooming purple, never leaving theirs. Her face, chiselled and sharp, could have matched the cut of the gemstones around her. And the lower half of her body was tucked away beneath the blackness.
They were disarmed, completely. This was not at all what their childhood had taught them to fear. Where were the fangs? The claws? The viciousness? The great and reliable markers of evil?
‘Welcome,’ she gurgled in a steady voice.
‘Me?’ whispered the butcher, overcome entirely, a clatter as his weapon slipped from his fingers.
She raised a long white finger and pointed at the shivering bundle in the corner of the boat. The young girl immediately screamed, batting away the air in front of her as though terrified by this creature. Others shot her dirty looks. What was the matter with her?
She remained in a horrified trance, gazing at the woman as though she’d never seen anything so repulsive; as though she had seen past the sparkle.
‘Welcome,’ the woman repeated. ‘You. You are like us.’
‘No!’ cried the girl. ‘No, I’m not!’
‘You are. You are hurt and you are scared of being hurt.’
‘Shut up!’
‘We have been hurt, too. Have you ever dreamed of the opposite?’
At this, she stopped shaking.
‘Of power? We have power. And strength. All those that hurt us … they are gone now. We are victorious. All the fishermen, all the butchers, all the hawkers, all the brothers, husbands … fathers … they cannot touch us again.’
She unfolded her cramping limbs and moved closer. ‘You … are safe?’
‘As will you be,’ hissed the woman, eyes glowing with eagerness, ‘as soon as you touch the water!’ She held out her shimmering hand, her head tilted to the left. ‘I promise.’
That did it. No one had ever promised her anything before. The young girl crawled forward, ignoring the astounded looks of betrayal from the others in the boat, and gingerly took the woman’s hand.
With a sudden jerk and a splash, the two disappeared into the water.
Screams. Curses. Scrambling for the oars.
‘My wife.’ The butcher gaped in astonishment, staring at the frothing ripples the creature had left behind. ‘That was my wife!’ The tiny boat tried to claw its way out, yet the sides of the cave seemed to have shrunk, trapping them within like the mouth of a sea serpent.
She rose from the waves. Her hair was slithering swiftly behind her, slowly turning silver, as though reborn in the water. Her hardening skin shook the light around it. And her eyes, her coal eyes – they were now fusing a smothering darkness and a lingering scent of decay with the universe around them. She opened her dainty mouth, wider and wider untill it was wrenching apart her jaw, and from it rose a thousand jagged daggers. A hunger, a
n ever-present hunger, had finally been awoken in her; a hunger for peace, for dominance, for justice. With one flick of her blood-scented tail, she lunged.
The sound of tearing paper and sudden splatters of reddened flesh were engulfed by the horrific cries of the last passengers. They thought of a hundred things before they died; of too-tough soil and too-tough soul, of scars that now would never heal, of a flickering streetlight in the rain, of cold coffee and whispered love. She saved the butcher for last.
It’s been twenty days since the town of Emerest has last seen a ship. Oh, the storm is gone; but still no ship dips an eager toe in the warming water, no barges come volleying through the vivid sunshine to deliver their shipments of life. And the one that washed up onto the beach … it was a hunk of damp and bleeding wood. That hardly counts.
Soon though, I think. The water is all the people have; it is their ruler. They know not, of course, what it really is – a benevolent king or a murderous queen – but alas, they have fallen in love. On the next hot day, with the next good wind, when the next good tide comes in, the island will melt into the water around it. For Emerest and its people are one, and its people and the sea are one, and till the end of their days they will worship this ocean. It is the ocean that brings them back home.
Red and Blue
‘I’m a fish among the many,’ said the red snapper to the blue. ‘I’m me, yet I’m them, and them is somehow me, so that I forget exactly which one I am.’
‘A pity,’ replied the blue, ‘that mine always travel quickly. They go in bursts and bustles and I never know quite where.’
‘But they’re running,’ said Red, and most sensibly, he thought. ‘They’re keeping us safe with them by running through the lot.’
‘I don’t know what we’re running from,’ grumbled Blue. ‘I’ve never seen it! And if I’ve never seen it, how do I know why we’re running?’
‘More troubling,’ said Red, frowning. ‘Where is it we are going? We’ve passed through currents and corals and waves and we’ve no way of knowing.’
‘What if,’ gasped Blue, now fearful at last, ‘they’re headed to the old shark’s den? If the leader’s confused? If he’s daydreaming too? We’d all be sushi, then!’
And it was here they craned their bodies, peeking outside of the school.
And in one sudden rush, they were pulled out like thorns,
Red snapper, blue snapper too.
‘We’re out!’ cried Red, rejoicing, ‘and our life’s our own again!’
‘My friend,’ chuckled Blue, his heart fit to burst, ‘I never knew you looked so dashing!’
‘And mine,’ chortled Red, ‘why, I never knew your scales were so colourfully smashing!’
They looked about, and the ocean was a murky shadow – they saw a single spot of light
And an anglerfish with his crimson-stained jaws emerged from the everlasting night.
‘Aha!’ cried Red and Blue, heroes in their souls. ‘We’ve seen you, and fear is no more! Now we know why we run, and where it is we go, and no longer do we swim in the dark!’
The anglerfish, his eyes all whitened flesh, lunged, a feverish beast
And that was the end, of both Blue and Red
And they died with their hearts at peace.
The Dead Tree
There was once a tree that was always dead. It had been a dead seed, and it sprouted dead branches, and the people were sure that if it ever bore fruits, they’d be dead as well. It grew, certainly; but its odour was that of rot and decay, each split in its bark crushing against its joints, threatening to snap.
The neighbourhood kids were the only ones to find any use for it. It was dead and grey, after all, and that sort of thing didn’t lend itself to the farmers or the gardeners or even the bored mothers looking for a shrub to water. But the children visited it every day, circling it and pretending to bring it to life, playing leapfrog and tag, and scratching their initials onto the flaky bark whenever they needed some downtime.
Now, they couldn’t have known this, of course, but the tree loved them very much. They meant the world to him, with their unconditional smiles, the cheerful glow in their eyes, how differently they seemed to treat him. Their visits rapidly became the highlight of his day, aside from perhaps finding a hidden pocket of water in the soil.
One watery Sunday, however, something changed. The first heavy rain they’d seen in many months slid its way down to the tree’s muddy roots just as the chorused laughter of the children scampered up the hill. And a few minutes into their daily games, one of the boys called out, ‘Hey, you know what? Our tree’s being watered!’
This led to a few scattered chuckles in response. ‘No, seriously! Do you think this is his first time being watered? My parents say nobody ever bothered ’cause … he was … you know, dead.’ Everyone looked up at the tree once again, their faces a mix of curiosity and motherly affection. ‘Well, if it is,’ piped up one of the taller ones, a girl, ‘I’m happy for him. Can you imagine not being able to have a proper drink of water for years? How horrible!’ The rowdiest of the boys glanced nervously at one another, thinking of their too-long days in the sun, being quite unable to imagine it. ‘Also,’ she added, crossing her arms over her chest, ‘how do you know it’s a he?’
The tree seemed to frown. Was this really his first proper drink in years, his first proper shower? He had known he was a tad unlike the other plants, with their thick dewy leaves and long emerald vines, but hadn’t suspected just how different he was. He tried hard to remember his last watering, other than the occasional drops of rain and the splashes of nearby puddles … but couldn’t; he must have been a mere sprout. How embarrassing! He pulled his branches closer to him in the wind, but without leaves, they just scratched him up even more.
The children didn’t seem to mind. They frolicked as usual, trailing fingers over his bark, chattering and laughing in the afternoon sunshine. But the tree minded. He minded very much.
A few days later, on one of those gloomy weekdays when cold, damp clouds drift over soggy grass, a rat found its way to the top of the lonely hill. ‘Good day, rat,’ the tree said to him, excited by the sight of a new face.
The rat, who had been busy scouring through an old newspaper, jumped at the sound, for he had not expected such a barren tree to have life in it. ‘Oh! Er … good day, tree.’
He was not used to being addressed so politely either. The tree, perhaps sensing that this rat was not one easily befriended, returned to his droopy sadness and let out a sigh. The rat, scampering towards a rotten tomato tucked beneath one of his roots, thought he should return the favour and be polite as well. ‘You seem sad, O tree.’
‘I am sad, dear rat,’ the tree replied.
The rat’s mouth fell open. Nobody had ever called him ‘dear’ before, and it won him over completely. ‘Oh, don’t be sad, little tree! Why, you’ve nothing to be sad about!’
At this, the tree let out an unabashed sob. ‘I have everything to be sad about. Look at me! Why, I’m not even alive! I’ve never flowered, never been watered … I might as well be a charcoal drawing. And now I do believe the only friends I’ve ever had must be embarrassed of me, small and ugly as I am.’ He clutched his branches to his stiff bark and cried, water trickling out of his spiny body.
The rat felt for the tree a great deal. He knew what it was like not being pretty enough or smart enough to be loved. He knew what it was like to feel pitied. Above all, he knew what it was like to feel inferior, suffocating beneath polished shoes till you mingle and fuse with the rotting smog of the mossy sewers.
And just like that, a plan began to form in his shrewd mind. He wanted badly to help the tree, and help him he would. ‘I think I’ve an idea,’ he told the tree, his heart swelling like a tick as he spoke. ‘But I’d have to stay in town for a few weeks. Would that be all right by you, tree?’
‘Of course,’ replied the tree, somewhat taken aback. ‘Stay wherever you’d like.’
The rat nodde
d, pleased, and began scurrying away, ready to put his plan into action.
‘Just so I know,’ the tree called after him, ‘what are you going to do?’
The rat inhaled, his furry chest expanding with his hope. ‘I’m going to bring you to life.’
SIX MONTHS LATER
The car trundled over the ridges in the road, tyres splashing through the small rain-made seas within them. It was yellow, or rather, had been yellow, before the scratches and birds and hail had leeched its shine away. Inside it, a small, barely noticeable family was on their way to a place they’d never wanted to go.
They turned a corner. A long stretch of gravel loomed in front of them, leaning onto the wreckage of what had once been a town. As they drove past, their eyes were drawn to the derelict carcass, like some hideous magnet. The buildings were either crumbles of brick and dust, or tilted with windows shattered and lights flickering; the last soldiers in no man’s land, waiting, just waiting, for death. Skeletons of damaged, rotting trees rose up from stinking mounds of dry soil and ash. The ground was blackened and decaying, tombstones popping up everywhere like chunks of misplaced stone, and the stench was like that of a hundred curdled bodies left out in the sun. Which, of course, they had once been.
‘What’s that, Mother?’ asked the girl, somehow incorporating her twenty-one questions into a single heartbeat.
‘It’s an old town, dear. No one actually lives there any more.’
‘Why not? What happened to it?’
Her father gave a great sigh, taking one hand off the steering wheel to pinch the bridge of his nose, as though the smell was leaking into the car like a noxious gas. ‘The plague, sweetie. No one knows how it returned, but the town witnessed a horrific plague – there hadn’t been one like it in two hundred years. It ... it spread through the air through the air, contaminating every house.’
‘So … everyone … died?’
‘The national services intervened. They burnt up the place, destroying any rats they found while they were at it. But yes, baby, it was too late for the town.’