Something still waits for you there.
But you don't fear the kraken now, at least not as much. It had you—and then let you go.
Behind it you find a jumbled painting unlike anything you've seen before, looking like a golden mirror that's been smashed and then clumsily pieced together again. The golden shards are arranged into something resembling Nude Descending a Staircase. You can't see yourself in these pieces, but you sense an image, a shape in the jumbled mass.
You look closer. Has this painting drawn you, or is it simply one oddity among many? The golden color—could that be fire, the fire you're searching for? Is there a method here, or only madness?
You must go see firsthand. You float out of the gallery and into the moonlit night above the dark islands of Sam's memory.
Your heart sinks as you survey the watery emptiness. Only two other islands remain. One displays a familiar orange-and-yellow ribbon of boardwalk, scene of your encounter with the kraken, but it looks smaller now.
A driving urgency fills you. By this time tomorrow it will all be gone.
You rush forward and as you near one of the islands you see the golden shards from the canvas scattered haphazardly on it, reflecting the moonlight from the black surface.
Which to go to?
The golden shards are closer, beckoning like fire. You tilt down and head toward the largest piece.
As you near you see faces on the shard, blurry images seen through ice. Your mother... you recognize her. And hiding nearby, little Samantha. Suddenly you are your sister....
Sammi loves to play "boo" with Mommy. Loves to climb behind the big easy chair and wait, quiet as a mouse, to leap out and yell "Bool"
As Mommy comes downstairs, Samantha is ready. Except Mommy opens the front door and Uncle Eathan is there. She says what she always says when she sees Uncle Eathan.
"What's up, doc?"
Uncle Eathan is a doctor for grown-ups, not like Dr. White that Sammi and Julie go to.
It's strange to see Uncle Eathan here when Mommy is usually cleaning or going shopping.
He comes into the living room and shuts the door behind him.
Samantha likes Uncle Eathan. He always has a smile, and he isn't always asking questions and showing her pictures and making her draw, like Daddy. And his beard tickles when he kisses her.
"That's what I want to know," he says. "What's up? You sounded upset on the phone. What's he done now?"
Sammi watches her mom look around, searching for her. But Sammi stays hidden. She can't jump out now.
"It was nothing, just another one of our stupid fights, over money, over the girls—"
"The girls—?"
Sammi feels a bit of dust in her nose, the beginning of a sneeze—
If I sneeze, they'll know I'm here, they'll know I've listened.
The bit of dust continues to tickle her nose.
"Just the same craziness, Julie with math problems, Saman-tha with paints and crayons. I wish you could say something."
"Since when does Nathan listen to anyone on the subject of his daughters? But I don't think he's harming them."
Mommy stiffens and turns to Uncle Eathan. It gets very quiet in the room.
"If for one instant I ever thought—even suspected—that, I'd be out of here. With the girls."
Quieter.
"Well," Uncle Eathan says, "you know where you can stay." He puts a hand on her arm. "It would be like old times."
Mommy pulls her arm away. "We promised to forget those 'old times,' didn't we. Let's keep that promise."
And just then the tickle in Sammi's nose grows worse, as if the sneeze knew what a bad time this was. The tickle suddenly seems to fill her nose with air, and even though Sammi reaches up to close her nose, squeeze it shut tightly, it explodes.
Uncle Eathan, Mommy... staring at her.
Sammi jumps up and says what she always says.
"Boo!"
Suddenly you're back outside in the 'scape, high above the island. You are disappointed—nothing there about the fire. Below you the shards begin to glow with a rich amber light. You watch in awe as they flow together, reassembling, until you see that the glass collage in the gallery was once—
A family portrait: Mom, Dad, Sam, and you—shattered.
Shattered by what? An affair?
Eathan and Mom—was there something going on between them? Or had there been? Was that what "old times" meant?
If true, this changes everything.
You look around.
The boardwalk island still beckons from below. Maybe the kraken is gone. It did its job.
You're almost afraid to go. If you don't find an answer, a solution here, then what? There's no place else to look? What's left of Sam will sink beneath the waves, like Atlantis ... gone everything.
You hurry to the boardwalk, the empty boardwalk with its burnished slats stretching impossibly far on the sinking island. And at the end, in the impossible distance, far past where the now-vanished fortune-teller sat, a white dot.
"I suppose that's where I'm supposed to go," you say aloud. "Please let me find the answer there."
No one's going to hold it against you that you're talking to yourself here.
You'll go crazy if you don't.
You start traveling the boards, missing the creak of the wood and the squeals of summer—the distant sounds of people playing on the shrinking beach, frolicking in the encroaching surf. But this boardwalk is silent, and the only sounds you're likely to hear are your own.
You look up. Just like the last time, the sky here is a swirl of bright-colored ribbons, as though the boardwalk were located on Jupiter.
You look ahead and see that the white dot is much closer, and no longer a mere dot. Appropriately enough, it's a concession stand. Hot dogs and more. Finally you can read the sign.
NATHAN'S.
Sure, you're at the beach, at Coney Island maybe, so naturally there's a Nathan's stand.
Except you don't think Sams ever been to Coney Island. Nathan took you south for summer vacations now and then, bur you never saw a Nathan's stand in Brighton.
That question again: Whose memory is this?
Closer to the stand. Someone's waiting there, being served.
On the sign you see colorful pictures of all the wonderful food items, the crinkle-cut fries, corn-on-the-cob dripping butter, clams on the half shell.
You're getting hungry.
What's it like to eat virtual food? you wonder.
The person ahead of you is short, dressed in a long, dark coat. Waiting here, you have a minute to study that cloak. It's black like the water but dabbed with spots of color, all swirls, just like the wood, the sky, the boardwalk.
You can't see the counterman, but you hear him.
"There you go, sir. There you are—"
And then the fellow in front of you turns, moving like slow-motion film, and as he faces you he's holding his head, a hand tight against each side of his face, squeezing his head, as he—screams!
The sound is an animal howl emanating from the oval mouth in his lightbulb head with two thumb gouges for eyes.
He scurries away, his piercing, whistling scream echoing after him.
When he's gone you realize you know that guy. Everyone knows The Scream guy. You had a chance to ask him what he was screaming about... and blew it.
Is Sam getting whimsical here? Playing with you?
Your mind is dying, Sam. The clock is running out. No time for games.
"How ya doin' today?"
You look at the counterman and it's Nathan.
Your father.
"Doin' okay?"
He's chewing gum, popping it, acting like a counterman, wearing a silly white cap.
You wonder if your image can speak in the memoryscape.
You say, "Dad ... Daddy. I—"
And suddenly you're a little girl again.
"Daddy—"
The counterman grins. "What'll it be? The special?" What
's the matter? Julie thinks. Doesn't he hear me? He's acting as though the words are lost, taken by the wind.
"Daddy, it's Julie. I'm—I'm your—"
But the counterman turns away. "Okay, then, that's it—you want the special, with the works. You're gonna like it." A quick glance over his shoulder. "No, you're gonna love it."
This talk—it's so confusing, the way he sounds like he's from Brooklyn. That's not your father.
"Daddy, it's me. Don't you see who it is? Please, I'm—"
But he's fixing "the special," scooping something off the grill, then slowly turning back to Julie.
"Here ya go!"
He hands her something. Julie reaches out and takes it.
"Daddy..."
Something in a bun. Something heavier than a hot dog. She looks down.
In the bun is a hand—grilled, scorched, its fingers twitching.
And now she screams—
The sound of your scream has to fill the manor, but you don't give a damn.
Another severed hand—what the hell does it mean?
You see your father looking at you, grinning.
"Want some mustard on that? Goes real well with mustard."
Your stomach tightens with nausea as you drop the obscene thing on the counter and back away. The hand topples from the bun and lies on the counter. You wouldn't be surprised if it scurried away on its own.
You father shoves it back into the bun and says, "Not hungry?"
He raises it to his lips and takes a big bite, then closes his eyes in gustatory ecstasy.
"Mmmmm! Delicious!"
You keep backing away until the boardwalk railing bumps against the small of your back. You hear splashing in the surf behind you.
Something else touches your back, something wet.
You jump and turn but suddenly your body is encircled, your pinned to your sides. Whatever's got you is cold and slimy and very strong. You don't have to look to know what it is but you turn your head anyway.
The kraken again, looming out of the black water, its many tentacles ranging back and forth across the sand. You see one giant, glowing eye studying you with cold detachment.
It let you go the last time, but still...
The Exit button—you try to point to it but your real-world arms are as trapped as their virtual counterparts.
You thrash about, your heart racing, your pulse pounding in your brain as terror grips you as tightly as the tentacle. There's nothing virtual or simulated about your fear. It's as real as anything you've ever experienced.
You feel the slimy suckers squirm against your skin as they open their mouthlike appendages to free the small hooks. A hundred needles pierce your skin, slowly, digging in. You yelp in pain but there's no one to hear. You're all alone with this thing.
"Sam... God, Sam—!"
And then you're moving, being dragged along the sand. You try to dig your heels in but the sand doesn't hold. You hear loud splashing behind you and know the black water is closer. You twist your head around and see the kraken sliding, jellylike, off the shore and into the deeps.
"Sam!" you scream. "I know you must have hated me at times, but I'm here to help! Don't do this, Sam! Please!"
You feel that icy, oily water swallowing your lower half, then your chest, and—all too fast—your head.
You close your eyes against the slimy feel of the water against your face. You seal your lips, but still you can taste the thick foulness.
And you can't breathe!
Down, down, down, the pressure building.
You're going to drown! A part of your brain knows there's air all around you in Sam's room but you can't get any! Panic surges through you. Your heart hammers in your chest as the water pressure hammers against your ears. You'd scream for help but if you open your mouth that filthy water will fill it.
You open your eyes and see the glowing chains of phosphorescence running along the kraken's flank, swirling in intricate designs as it carries you ever deeper. Almost beautiful.
You look back toward the surface—all dark—then below. A Sight below, bright, growing larger, burning like a quasar. The kraken drags you to it, pushes you toward it, thrusts you into the heat, the intolerable brightness.
And suddenly the water is gone. You gasp, cough, suck air. You can breathe again.
As the black water clears from your eyes, your surroundings swim into focus. No kraken. No black sea.
You're airborne.
You've been thrust into a new, deeper level, but one even more devastated than the previous two.
Below you stretch the remains of an endless forest that once must have been verdant and beautiful. But now the trees—all the trees—have been flattened. Stripped of every trace of green, they lie in concentric rings, all their denuded crowns facing away from the center of those rings.
You thought you'd be used to devastation by now, but this is truly appalling. You're reminded of photos you've seen of the mysterious Tunguska explosion in the early part of the century, or the hillsides around Mount St. Helens after it blew.
And in the center of these countless rings of millions of lead, uprooted trees sits a mountain. Or rather, half a mountain. Its top is gone, obliterated by an explosion of unimaginable force. A thin plume of smoke trails upward from the flattened, cratered top, and a small, ominous rivulet of golden lava, not much different from the color of the boardwalk you rrod only moments ago, trickles down its craggy flank. And matching over it all, a dim full moon.
This is it, you realize. The last level The source of all the damage sits before you. You see a rocky path leading up to the crater top.
That's where you'll find the answers.
Sam brought you here, she brought you down to this last level, to the smoking remnants of a mountain that must be climbed. You know that. And you're ready.
You're beginning your glide toward the mountain when you feel a tug on your shoulder. You gasp and spin around. No one there. Another tug, and a voice, muffled by your headphones.
Someone in the real world wants you.
Frustrated and annoyed, you click EXIT.
Twenty-Eight
Oliver Goldsmith: "O Memory! thou fond deceiver."
—Random notes: Julia Gordon
1
Julie lifted the goggles and looked around. Eathan's face hovered above her, his expression grim. He looked as though he'd been sleeping. His eyes were bloodshot, his normally handsome face drawn and haggard.
How long had he been there? Had he seen himself in that memory? Had he seen his brother's wife?
"Sorry. But I wanted to let you know that they almost captured O'Donnell."
"Liam?" she said, then caught herself. "Liam O'Donnell?"
"The one and only. They spotted him on Fylingdales Moor but he escaped."
"Then he's still nearby." He'd lied to her about leaving.
"Yes. I'm going down to the police station in Bay to post a reward for the bastard's capture. If I could just get my hands on him for two minutes . . ."
Julie laid a hand on his arm. "I know you cared for her."
He nodded. "I didn't have many people in my life besides you and Samantha. But after the two of you left, I..." He looked away. "Alma was special."
"I'm sorry."
He straightened. "Want to come into Bay with me?"
"No. No—I don't think so."
"We're going to get him," Eathan said, heading for the door. "I want to look this man in the eye and ask him what he did to Alma—and Samantha."
I've already done that, she thought. But she only nodded as he left the room.
Julie leaned back and stared at Sam's still form. Liam was still free and nearby. On the surface it meant one more danger to Sam.
But the real danger to Sam was inside, devouring her from within.
2
After making way for Sam's physical therapists to do their daily work, Julie retreated to her room and lay on the bed, pondering her next step with Sam.
/> The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that something lay buried—maybe hopelessly so—in Sam's memoryscape. Sam's unconscious seemed to be reaching out, pulling her deeper and deeper.
Maybe the answer was inside the volcano.
The memory had to be so deeply buried that Julie would never find it by chance. She'd have to know exactly where to look.
What could it be? What memory could be so awful that Sam would bury it so deeply? Would it show her what Liam did to her—if anything? Or was it something else completely?
And again Julie thought of the mention in the newspaper article about the fire starting in the basement.
Had she been playing with matches that night?
Or had Sam tried to imitate her sister's experiments, setting the blaze? Was that what she'd repressed?
Shaken, Julie bolted upright and crossed the room to the door. She stepped into the hall, looking up and down its length, wondering where to go. She wanted to run. She almost wished she were a jogger. She could go out and find a path across Fylingdales and run across the moor until she forgot these gut-twisting thoughts. But she knew her lungs would give out long before her endorphins kicked in.
She thought of the box in Sam's closet. As much as she wanted to see its contents, she knew she'd need a screwdriver or the like to pry it open. She felt the key in her pocket and glanced down the hall to the closed door to Eathan's study.
Why not? What other treasures lay hidden in that locked file cabinet?
Maybe more information about the fire ... maybe something to ease this gnawing fear. Eathan was still in the village, and she’d hear him drive up.
Minutes later she had her head in the second drawer. Much of it was correspondence from the early seventies with the life-insurance companies after the fire, plus the fire-insurance company, settling the mortgage, selling the property where the house had stood.
The collected minutiae of the aftermath of a tragedy. But why lock it up?
Unless he had nowhere else to put it.
Julie flipped through the rest of the hanging folders. More twenty-some-year-old correspondence. God, didn't Eathan throw anything away? A quick glance at the last folder—so thin she thought it might be empty—and she'd begin on the third and last drawer. A flash of white in the bottom caught her eye. She reached in and pulled out a double-folded piece of paper, sealed with a piece of ancient, yellowed Scotch tape.
F Paul Wilson - Novel 05 Page 25