Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans)

by Richard Chizmar

  “Mr. Cyril—” she started.

  “It's DeFillipo, but please, just Cyril. And I should call you?”

  “Ma'am. Where is my husband?”

  He took a deep breath and chose kinder words. “Right this way,” he said, holding his arm out.

  She looked side to side, confused.

  “This way, Ma'am,” he repeated, flapping his palm toward the dark corridor ahead of them.

  She moved forward, into the dark corridor. Old planks creaked with their footsteps and reverberated with their whispers. Light came from ahead. As they approached, she saw the open cargo hatch above and below, and beyond, the capstan.

  When they came to the edge of the cargo hatch the six men stopped.

  She glanced at them, but they avoided her eyes. She looked below, into the cargo hold. Several barrels stood side by side, but one was separated from the others by size and space and had a small stair beside it.

  Cyril motioned toward a man in red and white striped shirt, who scaled the ladder into the cargo hold and went up the stair.

  “Ma'am,” Cyril stressed. “Your husband is alive, and of a mostly sound mind, but something strange happened out at sea. I told you before I could not explain it, and I cannot explain it now.”

  He motioned to the man, who slid the head off and leaned it against the barrel.

  Maggie gasped and placed a trembling hand over her mouth.

  Barely breaking the surface of the barrel's liquid contents was a tiny island of pale, spotted flesh. It was motionless, so much so the men glanced at one another with bated breath.

  “You pickled my husband in beer?” she forced the words out of her mouth.

  “Wine, actually,” Cyril corrected her.

  “You said he was alive.”

  “Terry,” Cyril called to the man in a striped shirt.

  Terry looked up at his master, who nodded some unspoken command.

  Terry took hold of the barrel and gave it a sharp thrust, which hardly moved it, but sent the contents sloshing side to side.

  With a choking gurgle, the rising island became the crown of a head and then a face with bulging, dark eyes. Maggie wasn't sure how she knew, but somewhere in those alien eyes she saw Sam's soul, trapped inside this hideous creature.

  “Maggie!” he gurgled, wine flushing out of the gills along his neck.

  He stood upright, revealing only a portion more of his being. His thick, white beard, now more like rubbery strands of seaweed, showed somewhat of his appearance remained intact.

  “Sam!” she answered, and rushed toward the ladder.

  The men helped her descend. She ran to the barrel and, trading places with Terry on the stair, looked inside. “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I don't know,” he cried and raised his hands from the wine.

  His fingers were webbed, and their nails missing. She took hold of his face, but the flaring gills beneath his left ear cut her palm. She withdrew her hand and gazed at her bloodied hand.

  “Quick!” Cyril shouted.

  Terry took her by the wrist and dragged her to a nearby barrel. He turned the spout wide open and thrust her left hand beneath the pouring, stinging liquor.

  She instinctively went to pull her hand back but he held it beneath the spout. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “Only a precaution, Ma'am,” said Cyril. “Your husband's condition is potentially infectious, or worse, contagious.”

  After a moment Terry turned the spout off and released Maggie's arm. He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and handed it to her. “Here you go, Ma'am.”

  She dried the wound off.

  “Allow me,” said Terry as he tied the handkerchief around her palm. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

  She nodded toward him and faced Cyril. “What did you do to my husband?” she asked as she approached the barrel Sam resided in.

  She gently stroked Sam's brow with the back of three fingers. He leaned into her touch, the way a cat bunts to show affection.

  “Not I, Ma'am. His love of drink, I'm afraid. It seems some water-bound spirit has taken possession of his body—a water elemental.”

  She pulled her hand back. “A what?” she asked.

  “An elemental. This one thrives on and around water. Some men are more susceptible than others, and I'm afraid his endless drinking made him even more so.”

  “But you have him soaking in wine.”

  “It has enough water in it to satisfy both he and the spirit.”

  “He only drinks when he is at sea. That's why I prefer him at home.”

  “The spirit knows that. It calls to him like a Siren. That's why he always returns. He can't help himself. And when he answers it takes control of him.”

  She carefully brushed Sam's sad brow again, with her right palm now. “Then once he is back on land it will lose its hold and he will return to normal?”

  “No one can be certain,” said Cyril. “We've none seen such a case. But no matter, his fate is your decision. You can take him home, or if you choose, we'll keep him here on the ship till the end of his days, or if you think it fitting, we'll end his misery here and now.”

  “No!” Maggie and Sam cried out together.

  Cyril nodded toward Terry, who slid the head back over the barrel. Maggie withdrew her hand to avoid it being injured as her other.

  “Of course I want him home. How much do I have to pay you?” she asked, reaching into the purse hanging from her shoulder.

  “It isn't necessary, Ma'am,” said Cyril. “My men will take him to your home at once.”

  The five men nodded.

  * * *

  Maggie held folded fingers to her lips, speechless as the men rolled the large barrel through the open land-side door to the edge of the first slipway. Unable to watch, she turned and faced the bay-side overhead doors. Water sloshed just beneath the closed doors from the unseen bay.

  Cyril noticed her distress but held his peace.

  “I don't know why you couldn't carry him on one of your boats, instead of rolling him around like a cask of beer,” she said.

  “That barrel weighs over a ton. It'd sink the wherry for sure, but no worries, Ma'am. He'll be situated soon enough.”

  “If he survived the journey.”

  After fastening a framework of ropes to the overturned barrel, the men used the block and tackle mounted to the high ceiling to pull the barrel upright and onto the slipway.

  Standing on the dock, Terry pulled the nails out of the head and peeked inside to ensure their passenger was intact. He nodded and the men loosed the ropes and bowed toward Maggie.

  She approached the barrel alongside the dock. “Sam?” she called. “Are you alright?”

  Silence. Then a grating sound as the wood head slid aside, pushed along by slick, tube-like fingers. Hands braced against the chime of the barrel as he laboriously raised his body up enough to look into his lover's face.

  “Maggie, love,” he cooed.

  “Welcome home, Sam,” she said and smiled.

  He gave a grunt as he lowered himself back inside and out of sight. In a moment, his hand reached out and pulled the head over the opening to shut out the harsh light coming through the high windows.

  She stared at the barrel, wringing her hands. Cyril stepped beside her, facing the barrel as well.

  “I suppose I should find him a suitable pair of breeches,” she said.

  “Unnecessary, Ma'am. They'd only weigh him down. We tried to clothe him but he simply tore everything off.”

  “I see,” she said, and looked at the floor.

  “Now, your husband of course performed his duties as long as he was fit to do so. It is only right he, that is you now I suspect, should receive full payment as promised.”

  He had scarcely finished the words when she threw her arms around him and buried her face into his chest, weeping. He gazed down and sighed, then slowly placed his hands upon her back.

  “Mrs. Dearing, you have shown e
xtreme courage and loyalty in this, the most difficult of situations. I do not pretend to be a man of faith but I dare say God—if he is so kind and good a soul as promulgated—shall reward you well.”

  She mumbled something into his chest.

  “I'm sorry, Ma'am?” he said.

  “Maggie,” she said, raising her eyes to him. “Call me Maggie.”

  He smiled and released her. “As you wish, Maggie.”

  He reached into his pea coat pocket and retrieved a small book, from which he tore a page out and handed it to her. “Should you need me, fetch for me at this address.”

  “I will. Thank you, Cyril.”

  “My pleasure,” he said and bowed, then addressed his men. “Lads. Let us be on our way.”

  The men bowed toward her and went ahead of their master. Two pulled the landside overhead door shut and departed through the front door, followed by Cyril.

  When they had left, she found a spot on the dock and sat, waiting on her husband should he have need.

  * * *

  “I brought you something to eat,” Maggie called out as she approached the barrel with a small loaf of bread in her hands.

  The head slid open and Sam raised himself. “Thank you, love,” he said.

  She leaned against the barrel and overturned her full palm, releasing broken bits of bread into his cupped hands. He buried his face in his hands and began to eat the bread.

  With a loud cough, he spit the bread up and continued coughing. Maggie's heart grew weak when a trickle of blood ran from his gills. He lowered himself into the wine and a moment later bubbles rose. The floating bread on the surface of the wine was soon pulled beneath.

  When it all disappeared, he raised his head above the surface. “More, please, love,” he said and just as quickly submerged.

  She broke the bread into bite-sized chunks and dropped them on the surface of the wine. When they became soggy, water-logged pieces of bread they were plucked from beneath.

  A knock came on the front door.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  Cyril stepped inside. “Evening, Maggie. I do hope I'm not intruding.”

  “You're fine,” she said and called her husband as she approached Cyril. “Sam, Cyril is here to see you.”

  She took Cyril's pea coat and placed it on the rack by the door. He watched as Sam's slimy hands pressed against the chime and raised his piscine body.

  “Evening, Boss,” said Sam.

  Cyril bowed. “Sam. I see your wife is keeping you well-fed.”

  A loud, gurgling laugh erupted from Sam's throat. “That she is,” he said and laughed again.

  Maggie hid her blushing face.

  Sam's laughter turned into coughing, which became noticeably painful.

  “Is anything the matter?” Maggie asked.

  Sam held up a finger and submerged into the barrel. After a moment, he surfaced with a smile.

  “The only thing she won't give me is a drop of the hard stuff,” he said and chuckled. “But I know better than to ask her. So how about you go to the corner and bring back a bottle of anything you like?”

  “You should know better than to ask me,” said Cyril.

  Sam's laughter ended shortly. “What do you mean?”

  “And how have you been holding up?” Cyril asked.

  “What did you mean?” Sam repeated.

  “Begging your pardon?”

  “I should know better than to ask you?”

  “I simply meant it would be best that you refrain from hard drink, since—well, I'm sure you know why.”

  “I'm afraid I don't follow.”

  “The drink. Remember, that is what caused your condition.”

  “My condition? What condition is that?”

  “Sam,” Maggie scolded him. “Don't start a scene.”

  “You stay out of this, woman,” said Sam, pointing at her with a drooping finger.

  “Really, Sam. There's no call for this,” said Cyril.

  “And you? Who are you to come into my house and tell me what I can and can't partake of? Are you a physician? Or maybe you're a ship's surgeon now? For I was certain you were nothing but a pirate masquerading as a gentleman who'd as soon stab a man in the back if there was but profit to be had.”

  “Maggie,” Cyril turned toward her. “I think it would be best if I leave.”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said, ashamed to look into his eyes.

  “Yes. It would be best if you leave, Cyril,” said Sam, then pointed at his wife. “Maggie. I'm not finished with you,” he shouted until a fit of coughing sent him beneath the surface in search of relief.

  “Come,” said Maggie, taking Cyril by the arm and leading him toward the door.

  “I feel somewhat at fault,” said Cyril. “If it hadn't been for my offer, your husband wouldn't be in the pick—predicament he's in.”

  Sam raised his eyes just over the chime. He stared at his employer and wife. Sam humphed and yanked the head shut.

  Cyril and Maggie faced the barrel when they heard Sam's objection.

  “If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else,” said Maggie. “Sam loves the sea, and that's all there is to it.”

  “That may be so, but I made sure he couldn't resist my offer. And now—” said Cyril, still gazing at the closed barrel. “I'd give anything to have him back to normal, if only you could have him back as you remembered. When he was human, completely I mean.”

  “My memories of him may not be as fond as you may imagine.”

  She saw his brow raise. “He was difficult I mean,” she explained.

  He smirked. “The sea makes a man hard. All that salt I suppose. Preserves him like a piece of pork. It makes him even tougher to swallow.”

  She smiled. “It hasn't made you too hard,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Has it?”

  “Each man of the sea hardens in his own way. Whether to the plight of others or the hatred of himself. One man will forsake his wife. Another will forsake conscience.”

  “Conscience?”

  “That small bird that flutters around a man's heart, singing its song. A hard man will swat at the thing and shoo it away, til it's so far off he can no longer hear it sing.”

  “Which are you?”

  He laughed. “Well, I'm not wed.”

  “Yet you regret your offer to my husband. Perhaps that bird is not so far off.”

  He smiled. “It's time I be on my way. I'll stop by shortly, to make sure you and the pilot are doing well.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” she said, walking him to the door.

  He reached for his pea coat from the rack and began to don it. “Think nothing of it. And if you need anything, just say the word.”

  As he bent his other arm to fill the limp sleeve, she took hold of it and straightened it out. He smiled and pushed his arm through the sleeve.

  “Thank you,” she said, her hand resting on his shoulder.

  He opened the door and exited. With a sigh, she clasped her hands together.

  * * *

  Maggie sat in her wing back chair, a sampler and threaded needle in her lap. She sipped steaming tea from a China cup just above the companion saucer in her left hand before returning both to the end table beside her.

  She took up her needle and pushed it through the back of the sampler when a knock came. The tea cup rattled on the saucer, its dark contents sloshed side to side.

  “Coming,” she hollered.

  She set aside her needle and sampler, made her way to the front door and stepped outside. The salt wind blew harsh against her face on the second-story landing, but the pale, blond hair of her tightly-knitted bun hardly moved.

  The bright, pale sky showed no sign of sun or rain, just a dull haze so thick it seemed to hold the airborne gulls in place. As she descended the gray, plank stairs of her two-story cedar shake home, she noticed a new bald spot exposed from the chipping, white paint.

  If only Sam were back to normal. He'd put a fres
h coat on the side.

  She stepped off the stairs onto the small, concrete landing, and from there onto the gritty sand and seagrass, careful not to pick up a sole full of sandburs in her shoes.

  She opened the first floor door to the boathouse and stepped inside. Sam was still pounding the high ceiling with the long push pole. She waited between knocks to gain his attention.

  “Sam,” she called.

  He faced her. “Oh, hello, love,” he said and leaned the push pole against the barrel. “Good idea you had, giving me this pole. I see it works like a charm.”

  “You're welcome. What do you need?”

  “You know it's been a while. Weeks in fact. I know I shouldn't have asked last time, but I was wondering if you could fetch me a small drink.”

  She feigned not hearing. “Beg pardon?”

  “I said I'd like a drink.”

  “That wouldn't be wise, dear.”

  “Just a small taste,” he pleaded.

  She sighed. “You're floating in the stuff. If you're really that thirsty, open your mouth and swallow to your heart's content.”

  “Swallow,” he mocked her with a humph. “I'm floating in my own piss and shit. What do you want, I should die?”

  She paused to consider his words and gasped at the fact.

  “Sam, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. I assumed that—well, it doesn't matter. I was wrong. Forgive me,” she said and marched for the front door wringing her hands.

  His tone changed. “Don't leave me, love.”

  “I'm going to fetch Cyril. He'll know what to do.”

  “What good is he for?”

  “He can replace the contents of your barrel with fresh wine.”

  Now he considered her words, and with a large-lipped smile of wide-spaced teeth, he nodded several times. “'Tis a splendid idea, love. Do just as you say.”

  “Yes, dear,” she said.

  He watched as she passed over the threshold and closed the door behind her, leaving him alone in the boathouse.