by Dan Glover
Mermaid
Spring
Books by Dan Glover
The Mermaid series
Winter's Mermaid
Mermaid Spring
Summer's Mermaid
Mermaid Autumn
Liza McNairy Series
Peppermint Soul
Baja Blues
Deadhead
Philosophy
Lila’s Child: An Inquiry Into Quality
The Art of Caring: Zen Stories
The Mystery: Zen Stories
Apache Nation
The Gathering of Lovers series
Billy Austin
Lisa
Allison Johns
Tom Three Deer
Justine
Yelena
Short Stories
Thoughts on the 5:58
Streets
There Come a Bad Cloud: Tangled up Matter and Ghosts
Mi Vida Dinámica
Mermaid Spring
Dan Glover
Published by Lost Doll Publishing
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
All the characters in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to the living or the dead is coincidental.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
Paradise Lost, John Milton
Chapter 1—Holes
His whole life had been a waste.
Far above in the moonlight he saw the tiger hovering and glaring at him, a lost meal for her and the two cubs. For just a second he thought she might make the leap down but apparently he wasn’t worth the risk. Instead, she raised her head, huffed at the air with her mouth hanging open, and bounded out of sight.
When the old walls of the shotgun shack gave way beneath him Kirk was so close to the jaws of the beast that he felt her hot breath in his face.
He found it comical that seconds from a gruesome death he was regretting all the time he malingered away. Just a couple hours ago he was pondering suicide but now that his demise was no longer a theoretical notion but a solid and inescapable fact he was ready to fight. He drew back his arm, made a fist, and waited to get in at least one good punch.
The tiger—with teeth glistening in the moonlight—lunged for him but in her haste her claws skittered on the loose boards that heretofore comprised the walls. In doing so she dislodged the shoddy wooden flooring beneath Kirk. A second later he was falling backward into the dark, floating.
Was this it? Was this what death felt like?
He landed hard on his back with breath momentarily knocked from his body. A rattle of timbers sounded around him as pieces of the shack cascaded down the hole. A couple boards struck him in the face and stomach seemingly to assure him that death was not his, not yet.
His breath came in fits and starts as he re-inflated his lungs a gasp at a time testing his limbs one by one to discover if they worked. Sitting up he peered into the darkness. Apparently he had fallen into one of the old tunnels that led from under Orchardton Hall into the village, the old escape passages dug hundreds of years ago in case of siege.
He needed to get back to the safety of the castle. Trying to get his bearings in the darkness he sniffed what little breeze there was hoping the fusty perfume of ossuary air might lead him in the direction he needed to go. He knew if he chose wrongly he would be too weak to turn around by the time he realized his mistake.
The tiger's growl above reminded him to be on his way. Struggling to his feet Kirk shook off both the effects of his fall and the rapidly escalating illness to begin what he hoped would be his journey back to the castle.
The darkness was profound as involuntarily blinking his eyes in an effort to help them adjust did no good. He smoked cigarettes for decades until the caches of them evaporated. During those years he always carried a lighter in his pocket but when the cigarettes gave out a lighter was of no use. Now he could use it.
At least the tunnel seemed relatively straight. The floor was worn smooth and there was a slight downhill slant to it which Kirk took as a good sign knowing that the catacombs were much deeper than an ordinary basement.
As a young boy he was in the habit of wandering off from his home in Kurgan during his sleep. He remembered awakening in the dark like this, afraid and alone, and crying out for a mother who did not answer. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he found he was in the cellar of a burnt out house. A door stood open. For just a second he was tempted by the gaping darkness before crawling out of the hole and running back to his bed.
This was what he would have found—he was certain of it—a blackness that swallowed all light and yet lent succor to those chased by fathers with fists and things with teeth and claws and children who incessantly mocked his stutterings. He remembered attempting to wish it away by blinking his eyes: that loop in his brain that made him say the same sounds over and over again until he finally got them right. It never worked. But his classmates noticed his blinking. They used it to torment him, and his father believed beating him would help resolve the problem.
"You'll never amount to anything, you stupid stuttering simpleton."
Now, he yearned to confront the old man... to tell him how he was the last man alive on earth... that he had indeed amounted to something even though it was pure luck and happenstance.
"Come and go away with us, Kirk. You can have your pick of girls."
Like everyone else in his life Drummond teased him constantly so it was difficult to judge whether or not the boy was sincere in asking. Kirk knew better than to leave to vicinity of the Ladies, however, having gone into the village numerous times and suffering the withdrawal symptoms.
"You shouldn’t go, Drummond. It isn’t safe."
"You're just a coward, Kirk. We'll be fine. I tell you what... I'll return in a month and prove it to you... then maybe you'll listen."
Kirk had been on the mission to recover Drummond's remains along with the four girls he talked into going with him in a misguided effort at starting their own colony. Though their bones had been picked clean by scavengers he saw how they died... in agony... and he had no wish to experience that same fate.
Even though his bones were battered from the fall and his body felt as if it was covered in bruises, Kirk broke into a trot. The downhill going was easy and though it unnerved him to run into the total darkness, he reckoned he had no choice if he wanted to survive. Within seconds a stitch began gnawing at his side but he ignored the pain.
"How could you do that to me, Kirk?"
The pain in Ginger's voice still caused him sleepless nights fretting over what a horrible friend he had been. There was a reason why no one wanted to associate with him... he had let everyone down in his life.
For years he blamed it on his drinking but it was more than that and he knew it. He just wasn’t a good person. Rather than sticking up for someone who had done him a kindness he would turn on them like something wild and evil. Ginger wasn’t the first person to realize that nor would she be the last.
"Despite my better judgment, Kirk, and even though I feel you are irredeemably bad in nature and will doubtlessly cause more harm to the People, the vote has gone in your favor. You stand acquitted of the crime of collaborating against the Ladies. I warn you, however, that there will be no second chance. The next time you stand in front of us, you will be found guilty and exiled from Orchardton Hall."
On the day he stood on trial in front of a tribunal of his peers at Orchardton Hall he felt something snap inside his head as the torrent of pent up words flowed forth. Having failed at the attempted coup, knowing Marilyn was dead, and having lost the only person who ever told him he wa
s worth anything, it was as if trying to get the sounds right all those years no longer mattered. Facing death set him free, free of all the hurt and the hate and the hiding.
Lady Lauren was an imposing figure standing in front of him handing down the verdict. He could see it in her eyes that she had severe reservations about allowing him his freedom yet he could have told her then and there that none of the People would ever be free. Instead, he maintained his silence and walked out of the room.
The stuttering stopped.
In what he believed were his final hours he discovered a dignity that he lost long ago. Though he knew intellectually that his father had been dead for a century, prior to the tribunal he dreamt of the old man nearly every night waking to clammy sweat and his limbs flailing about fending off the shadowy blows raining down upon his body.
Kirk was feeling stronger; the pain in his back was lessening when he breathed deeply to cough up the phlegm gathering at the bottom of his lungs. At first he thought he was imagining it but soon it was clear the tunnel was coming to an end up ahead. The familiar odor of ossuary bones reached his nostrils lending him hope when all was lost.
Climbing the stairs from the catacombs into the upper reaches of Orchardton Hall he encountered no one though of course it was early in the morning yet and everyone was asleep. Obviously no one missed him nor should they.
Collapsing into his bed Kirk dreamed of silver striped tigers with immense fangs growling low in the darkness and cubs bouncing off his chest as they took turns leaping upon him from somewhere up high.
Chapter 2—Watcher
Something about the girl on the beach beckoned to him.
She seemed to sense his presence in a way only his kind was able to do even though the girl bore more than a passing resemblance to those who were no more. He felt her psyche probing his for answers he deigned not to give up just yet. Her mind was stronger than any he encountered either now or then.
As she raced into the sea he was tempted to go after her even though the salt water disagreed with his constitution. He chided himself for wasting time though that was all he had; there was no reason for him to be on this beach. He followed a feeling here. For weeks he stood on the sand looking out over the waves. A fascination built in his hearts to see the Isles across the channel though he was unsure why he felt this need.
He was alone.
He woke this way, complete in his solitude, having no requirement to seek out another. Ages ago he wandered forgotten paths in dense forests and deep snowy mountains shunning those who were no more, knowing they were most responsible for his isolation, both hating them and loving them for the same reasons.
He grieved not their passing anymore than he mourned the fading of the day nor was he joyful for it. Even with all their refinement and myriad achievements they were nothing but chattering monkeys, still making war upon each other while despoiling the world.
When he left Lake Baikal for the first time it was on their account. The filth they poured into its crystal blue waters befouled the depths until if his people stayed any longer they would perish. He felt certain if he could but explain his predicament to the monkey people that they would amend their ways and cease to poison all they touched.
He was mistaken.
He was saying goodbye to someone dear to him when he was taken by a monster of the Lake and dragged into its depths. Deeper and deeper he went until his body felt as if it might burst under the pressure. Finally, desperately, he stuck a finger into the beast's eye gouging at it until the water turned red with its blood.
Suddenly he was free.
He drifted somewhere between the worlds: pierced with many wounds, his head stove in, his clothing and belongings stripped from his body. When he woke covered by a thin smattering of water the sky was new, showing how the earth had turned over. His name was forgotten, his history wiped clean.
A golden day star was aflame in a sky of blue and he found he was famished. Leaving the Lake he foraged in the forest for food. Coming upon a pond he remembered a dream of water yet the recollection danced around the edges of his memory until it was once again forgotten.
Plunging deeper into the forest he walked until his eyes began to fade to black. The day star vanished leaving him bereft of its light and warmth. Tiny bright dots poked through the darkness which hovered overhead threatening to overwhelm him. Shivering he sought the warmth of the comforting earth lying down and piling dead leaves over his naked body.
He thought he must be dying so he closed his eyes as his mind winked out.
Resurrected with the day star bursting forth and birds crooning their morning songs, again he was famished. He came across a monkey wearing strange garb. Its shock was such and his strength so much greater that he easily throttled it before it could run away but tasting its flesh sickened him. It was sour and bilious. Taking the weapons carried by the monkey he left the corpse lay where it fell bloody and broken.
Stopping at a clear running stream he washed the filth from his body and drank his fill before moving on. Coming to a clearing he saw mountain peaks towering steep in the distance covered with green trees and topped by glistening snow. Sensing safety there he picked each path with care as he moved closer to his destination.
Once again his eyes began to darken as weakness overcame him. He understood that it was not he who was dying but the day and so he took shelter under heavy brush lying down in a ravine pulling debris over his body to ward off the cold sky filling with terrible diamonds sharp and bright.
The light of the day star pierced his eyelids and once again he rose from the grave, thirsty and hungry. Going to a mountain stream to slake his thirst he spotted a goat yet unaware of his presence. Stringing an arrow into the bow he had taken from the monkey carcass he felled the creature with ease. Its blood warm and sweet in his throat, he tried to bite into the flesh but it was tough and sinewy.
He remembered fire.
It was his earliest memory of the dry land, monkeys dancing around flames shooting high into the sky and roasting succulent portions of meat over the hot coals. Fingering a tin box taken from the fallen monkey he opened it to discover a black stone alongside a flat round piece of metal nestled in a bed of soft fir.
Instinctively he put his fingers through the metal and making a fist he struck it against the stone producing a shower of sparks. Within minutes a fire crackles in front of him. Using a knife he cut the skin from the goat before dislodging one of the legs to skewer on a green stick and hang over the flames.
The days repeated as did the nights. He was conscious of the passage of time yet it meant nothing. Occasionally he came down from the high places to prey upon the monkeys who huddled close by the Lake in villages that provided no quarter. He killed indiscriminately taking what he needed to survive leaving behind nothing but darkness and tales of dread.
Spoken to he could not speak.
Listened for he could not be heard.
He watched the uncounted years unfurl. He covered his nakedness with the furs taken from animals as well as the monkeys that he slaughtered. As time mounted its steeple he noted during his sporadic and yet faithful returns that the Lake became increasingly polluted from the filth dumping into its crystal waters.
One day it all stopped.
Entering the villages one after another he discovered only death. This neither concerned him nor brought about a sense of exaltation. These short-lived creatures were born to die quickly. In between those extremes they caused a never-ending cascade of troubles while wrecking havoc upon the world. Now that they were gone perhaps normalcy would plant its flag upon the land and he might reclaim what was taken.
In his more lucid moments he believed he too must have one day been born, that he too must have had a name, perhaps he even had a family who loved him. It was during these times when it troubled him most to be alone.
There was movement on the beach, laughter and talk. Sensing it more than seeing and creeping closer he watched as a boy and a girl
trotted out of the sea as if they belonged there. Their dialect—a sort of lilting sprechgesang—stirred to life a long-stilled memory floating somewhere between his dreaming and waking consciousness.
They were beautifully naked. This didn’t seem to bother the boy as much as the girl. She wrapped herself with a type of cloth she carried in a pouch tied around her waist before sitting down beside the boy. The talked between them shifted to that of tenderness and they touched one another.
Suddenly the boy leapt to his feet shouting out a challenge before racing back into the sea. The girl did not move. She seemed melancholy. She held a hand to her stomach as if she knew a new life had just been created. Watching her, he desired to go to the girl, to explain his part in all this, yet his passage through the tall grasses growing verdant and wild along the breakwater alerted her to his presence.
Her mind sought his, casting about the dark edges of his memory for answers he did not know he remembered. She too bolted into the ocean trailing spasms of fear behind her. A hankering to follow arose. He decided a trip to the nearest harbor was in order. Perhaps he might find a sea-worthy ship with which to set sail for the Isles of her destination.
The salt air made him thirsty. Going to a fresh water pond to drink he noticed his reflection: his hair long and tangled, his beard like a mane. A vision of the boy on the beach drifted before his eyes, clean cut and beautiful. He decided to make use of the scissors he found decades ago in a store he ransacked for edibles. If he was to meet these strange new people he desired to look presentable and not all together like the mad man that he had become.
Chapter 3—Atonement
Sequestering herself for so long in the laboratory reminded her of the hours she spent locked in the isolation booth.... that gilded cage at the Centers for Disease Control headquarters still gave Karen nightmares: the darkness paving the way to a set of silver eyes drawing ever closer, clawed fingers groping for her.
Knowing first-hand how Lily must have suffered did nothing to assuage Karen's sense of culpability for kidnapping and holding her Lady prisoner for seven long years. Lily reassured her a hundred times or more that she held no animosity toward her former captor. Yet the guilt was always present, pressing in on Karen at times when she should be happy and content with how life had played out.