by Paul Moomaw
“Shit, I don’t know. Over the years I’ve gotten used to impermanence. Don’t bank on anything, that’s what I’ve lived by.” He sighed and stood up. “Maybe I’ll pay a call on Dieter. Misery loves company and all that, although his misery is probably a little more comfortable than mine.” He rested a hand on Pray’s shoulder. “Right now, I think I need some time by myself, to lick my wounds, you know? I may not see you again before you leave.”
Pray struggled to his feet.
“Julian, dammit, don’t walk out of my life again.”
“I’ll stay in touch.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a Scout.”
Julian laughed. He stepped toward Pray, wrapped his arms around him, and hugged him tightly. He stepped back and fished in his pocket.
“Here, take this. Call it a talisman, one that will keep us linked, no matter what.” He held out the worn Zippo cigarette lighter he had found when they were boys.
Pray took it without speaking.
“Take care of yourself, little brother,” Julian said. He gazed at Pray for a long moment. “I love you,” he said. Another silence, and then, “Dad, too. Tell him that, will you?”
Pray nodded, afraid to try to speak.
Julian walked away with quick, determined steps. Pray watched him go, tossing the Zippo absently in his hand. He glanced down at it, then back to his bother’s retreating back.
“I don’t smoke,” he said. He turned back to the sea, and sat down in the sand to watch the sun finish coming up.
* * *
ZAKROS, 1998
The water of the cave shimmers dimly from sunlight far above, at a place where Poseidon Earth Shaker has opened the surface of the island to the sky. The pale, white form of the girl drifts, resting, in the gentle current that moves through the underwater grotto. Wrapped lovingly in her arms is the statue of the goddess, sword extended, glinting softly in the dim light. The girl’s eyes are open, and appear for all the world to meet the gaze of the statue.
A voice, more felt than heard, wraps itself around the girl.
“You have done well, my child,” the voice says.
“I took so very long, Mother.”
“Time has no meaning, only the deed matters, and you have done my bidding.”
“Is the small goddess safe, Mother?”
“She is forever safe, my daughter. I am pleased.”
“I am so tired, Mother.”
“Now you may rest, my child.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
The pale girl’s eyes close, and her arms release their hold on the statue. Softly, as if in a dream of a dance, she drifts down, away from the light, into the peaceful dark.
– THE END –
Paul Moomaw worked as a newsman before returning to school for a doctorate in clinical psychology. He practices in Missoula, Montana.
BOOKS BY PAUL MOOMAW
Bitterroot Blues • The Contractor
The Goddess Under Zakros
The Lazarus Drop