by J. R. Rain
Never once had the creatures looked up. Never once had Clyde ever given them a reason to look up. He just watched and drank and wondered what in the devil he’d gotten himself mixed up with.
And when the mating was done...the playing began. The swimming and diving and splashing. They were a playful bunch. Horny, but playful.
And it all happened one night a year.
In Clyde’s backyard.
He sipped his coffee, and inhaled on his cigarette. Two vices he was determined to someday quit.
But not tonight.
No, tonight was all about the creatures who come from the sea. And about staying up. He had never watched them leave. He always wanted to watch them leave. Maybe watching them leave would give him some clue as to who they were. Or what they were. Or where they came from.
Maybe.
He didn’t know, because he always fell asleep. Always, dammit. What was wrong with him? After all, how many people got to witness...this?
Not many.
And as the wind subsided and the playing in his pool mellowed, Clyde could feel his eyelids getting heavy.
No, dammit.
He jammed them up, drank more coffee, stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward.
Shortly, he found himself sitting back again, his eyelids even heavier, the white images below his balcony just a blur. Long blurs, granted, but blurs nonetheless.
No, he thought. Just a few more hours.
As the wind picked up again, bringing with it the scent of salt and brine, Clyde’s eyes were tightly shut.
And the creatures played on.
The End
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Merlin’s Tomb
Author’s Note: “Merlin’s Tomb” was, in fact, the opening scene to a much bigger screenplay that never happened. That screenplay was going to be an epic, Indiana Jones-esque adventure about the search for the Holy Lance, or the Spear of Destiny. Except something funny happened along the way to the studios: my Hollywood agent and I had a falling out just as I began the screenplay. I left the agency, and never went back to writing screenplays.
For those of you who don’t know, the Holy Lance is the very lance used by a Roman Centurion long ago to pierce the side of Christ as he hung on the cross. The lance, or spear, is purported to give great power to its owner. In fact, according to legend, the owner of the lance can rule the earth.
Fun stuff.
Napoleon supposedly owned it. And so did Adolph Hitler. Or so the legends go. I mention Hitler here for a reason, as you are about to find out. Der Fuhrer was going to play an important role in my screenplay, and I had thought it might be fun to introduce him in the opening sequence as a lad. Except the screenplay never got written.
Or, rather, never got completed.
The opening sequence was indeed written, a sequence that, I think, can stand alone. A sequence that also features one very popular wizard, too. That opening sequence has now since been turned into an easy-to-read short story, which I present to you here now. —J.R. Rain
Merlin’s Tomb
The cathedral was majestic. But in young Clifton’s mind, when you’ve seen one stained-glass window, you’ve seen them all.
“I’m bored,” he announces.
Monique tugs his hand. “Come, cousin,” she says in her heavy French accent. “Father will be worried. We’d better hurry.”
But Clifton still lags behind the others in the tour group. “Uncle Gerard hasn’t noticed us for the past thirty minutes.”
“Well, Father has always been a bit...preoccupied.”
“You mean a bit boring,” Clifton counters. “He wanted to come here more than we did.”
“Clifton, you’re on holiday, in France. The least you could do is pretend to be interested.” Monique pauses, letting go of his hand and taking in the great, intricately carved pillars. “It’s not often one tours the St. Francis Cathedral,” Monique observes. “Especially an American such as you. Look about you,” she continued, gesturing to the sun pouring through the majestic stained glass windows. “It is beautiful, no? See how high the ceiling is!” Smiling, she raises her arms and spins around, her fashionable dress with the flower pattern twirling around her.
The tour guide, who has been talking nearly non-stop to the small group following him, continues: “Legend has it that the sword of Excalibur is hidden here in St. Francis, perhaps within a secret chamber...”
“Okay, now that’s interesting,” Clifton says. “Excalibur, here?”
He now, admittedly, views the church with a renewed curiosity. He sees again the walls, which hang with ornate paintings and rich tapestries, and grins. But what catches his attention the most is the gilded bronze door to his right. A massive door, and he wonders what’s behind it.
Excalibur, perhaps?
He glances at his uncle, realizing that the man is completely absorbed in the tour. On impulse—after all, most of what Clifton did in his young life was on impulse—he grabs his cousin’s hand and pulls her to one side, where they hide behind a wide cabinet, which just so happened to be next to the gilded, bronze door.
From here, they can still hear the tour guide, “...of course, that’s just a legend. Just like the one that claims the bones of Merlin are buried deep beneath the cathedral, forever guarding the sword of Arthur. All of which add to the charm and mystery here at St. Francis, don’t you think?”
The group, along with Monique’s father, murmur agreement—then turn a corner...and leave the cousins behind.
“Let’s explore!” Clifton exclaims.
“Father would be very displeased.”
“He won’t even know we’re gone,” Clifton argues, adjusting his cap. Like Monique, he is well-dressed with new breeches and stockings. The young duo are fairly well-off, and while raised with the utmost etiquette, Clifton is somewhat prone to mischief. He is, after all, an eleven-year-old boy with an over-active imagination.
As she is about to protest again, Clifton turns to the big bronze door, ignoring her. “Let’s see what’s in there. Pretty please?”
And before she can tell him just what she thinks of this ridiculous idea, Clifton pushes the heavy door open. It groans and creaks just enough to make even him nervous. He looks over his shoulder, but they are still alone in the long hallway. He grins, relieved, and winks at his cousin. He pushes the door all the way open.
“C’mon, Mon.”
Despite her disapproval and mild protests, Monique soon joins her mischievous cousin—a cousin who was always getting her into trouble—and together they step through the bronze door.
* * *
And find themselves in an old sanctuary.
It’s filled with pews and statues and more stained-glass windows. The place has a reverence that encourages whispers, which is what Clifton does even now.
“Boy, oh, boy,” he says quetly, literally rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Anticipation for what, exactly, he didn’t know. On second thought, he very much knew: adventure. The guide, after all, had said the magical words of King Arthur, Excalibur...and Merlin!
Music to any eleven-year-old boy’s ears.
“I think we’re not supposed to be in here,” Monique protests, whispering as well.
“Well, he’s in here,” Clifton says softly, pointing toward another boy sitting quietly in the front pew. The dark-haired boy is a couple of years older than Monique and her cousin. He is using a sharpened piece of charcoal to carefully draw on a pad of paper. His blue eyes suddenly glance up at them, study them briefly, then dropped back down to his drawing.
“Well, I don’t think he’s supposed to be in here, either,” Monique protests.
From the hallway, Clifton hears the muffled voice of his uncle: “Monique? Clifton? Where the devil have you two gone?”
“Mon Dieu!” Monique exclaims. “We’d better go find him. He’ll be worried—”
But as she starts for the bronze door, Clifton takes her hand and leads her down the
main aisle toward the lectern. “If your father finds us in here, I’ll get a whipping. He already thinks I’m trouble.”
“Well, you are.”
Clifton quickens his pace to the massive lectern and podium. There, the two cousins stand a moment beneath a life-size crucifix of Christ hanging from the cross. Behind them, Gerard’s faint voice is now joined with another voice. The cousins exchange worried looks. And, just as the door to the sanctuary opens, Clifton yanks Monique down behind a massive stone altar.
Uncle Gerard and a red-faced priest enter the sanctuary through the same bronze door. They spread to either side of the great room. Behind the altar, Clifton raises his finger to his lips, shushing his nervous cousin. Twice the girl nearly stands. Twice Clifton grabs her and holds her down.
And that’s when the boy feels something curious. He moves closer to the altar, frowning. He next brushes his palm over the stone base.
“Do you feel that?” he whispers.
“Feel what?”
The boy guides his cousin’s hand to the correct spot...and to the cold draft of air.
“It’s air. Big deal.”
“Exactly. Air. Which means there’s an opening here.”
Gerard and the priest finish their search at the back of the long sanctuary, and are now moving up the aisles toward them. As of yet, they have not seen the kids hiding behind the altar on the raised lectern.
As the men approach, Clifton furiously searches the stone base until he finds a thin seam.
“They’re coming,” Monique hisses.
“Help me,” he tells her.
“Help you do what?”
“Push. We need to push it open. I’m sure of it. That’s how these things always work.”
“How do you know that’s how they work?”
“That’s how they work in Amazing Adventure Tales.”
“This isn’t a magazine, Clifton. This is real life—”
“Just help me, will ya?”
Clifton heaves his shoulder into the altar, grunting, digging his boots into the polished floor. Or trying to. Mostly he slips and slides. He curses under his breath.
“Scoot over, will ya?” she says, irritated, elbowing her cousin aside to make some room.
Now, with the two of them pushing, the heavy slab of stone shifts. More cool air blew out through the narrow, dark opening.
“Push harder!” Clifton whispers.
“I’m pushing as hard as I can,” Monique hisses.
As they continue with their efforts, they hear Monique’s father speak to the older, dark-haired boy. “Say there, lad. Have you seen two children in here? A boy and girl?”
Clifton and Monique pause, gasping slightly, straining to hear the boy’s answer. After a moment of silence, the boy speaks in a heavy German accent: “No. I’m sorry.”
Her father grunts. Monique breathes a sigh of relief, but Clifton is already pushing again. Just as she leans her shoulder in to help, that’s when it happens: the block of stone opens enough for them to crawl through.
They do just that. Clifton, always the fearless one, is already crawling forward on hands and knees. He reaches back and grabs his cousin’s wrist.
“C’mon, Mon,” he whispers from the darkness.
Monique knows she doesn’t have to follow him. She also knows that this is crazy. Clifton, after all, was nothing but trouble. Except, she secretly liked that about her cousin. He kept things interesting.
As she debates this internally, she hears a voice from the sanctuary say, “Voices, monsieur. Up there. Near the altar.”
Monique squeaks, then crawls quickly through the opening, hurting her knees a little in the process. She ignores the pain. Once inside, she and Clifton push the stone shut again.
They are safe.
For now.
* * *
It is mostly dark, although light from the sanctuary seeps through various cracks in the altar’s old masonry.
The cousins sit as quietly as they can, not daring to move, as shadows move on the other side of the altar’s secret entryway. Now they hear Gerard and the priest mumbling and searching, clearly confused and irritated.
Clifton stifles a laugh. Never has he had more fun than this! Well, maybe. But this is certainly in the top three.
When the shadows finally move away, Monique exhales a sigh of release. Never has she been more nervous in her entire life. Just as she’s about to turn to her trouble-making cousin, he suddenly points behind them.
“Look there!” he whispers excitedly.
Monique follows his pointing finger—a finger that is barely illuminated by the light seeping in through the cracks. She sees it too: stairs that wind down into the floor itself, stairs that are hidden by the altar.
“I betcha no one’s been down there for a hundred of years.”
“And it can be another hundred years, for all that I care.”
“C’mon, Mon. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“There is no way I’m going down those stairs.”
“Suit yourself. You can just deal with your dad alone.”
And with that, Clifton eases forward, and down into the dark opening, his feet alighting on the first step.
A moment later, he disappears.
Monique, chewing her lip, looks at the stone opening, considers her options, looks back at the dark hole, then says, “Wait for me!”
* * *
In the sanctuary, the dark-haired boy has just witnessed two kids seemingly disappear behind the altar. One moment they were there, hiding from this fuddy-duddy man and angry priest, and the next...gone.
The boy frowns and sets aside his drawings. On long legs, he crosses the room and heads up the short stairs to the raised lectern and altar. Once there, he examines the ancient stone structure closely from all around. Yes, indeed, the two kids are quite gone. But where?
Now, he moves his hands over the intricately carved stone work...and soon he, too, feels the cool draft of air.
* * *
With Clifton one step ahead, the cousins continue down the winding stairs.
There is no railing, and so the kids use their hands for guidance, sliding along the rough-hewn stone walls, which are sometimes damp with mildew. In fact, they can hear water dripping from somewhere.
The archaic steps sometimes crumble beneath their weight. Each time they do, Monique squeals a little, only to be hushed by her younger cousin. All in all, it is a precarious descent, especially for Monique in her new shoes.
At one point, disoriented in the complete darkness, she loses her balance and, gasping and squealing, she falls forward into Clifton. Amazingly, her cousin keeps his footing and catches her. She gets a sever admonishing to stay alert...and then the two kids continue down, down...
* * *
“I’m frightened, Clifton,” says Monique. It is at least ten minutes later. They have been traveling in complete darkness for so long. There is only so much darkness a girl could take.
“Just a little longer, please. I feel a draft.”
“You and your blasted drafts.”
“Wait! I see a light ahead! Come on!”
Monique sees it, too. A soft glow from far below.
* * *
The light is a flickering torch, of all things.
As they reached the blessed fire—anything is better than all that darkness—they also reach the bottom of the stairs. Before them, stretching to the left, is a long stone corridor.
Clifton reaches for the torch, which is in a metal sconce mounted on the stone wall.
“Here’s a question for you,” Monique says. “Who lit the torch?”
“Dunno,” Clifton answered.
“And how long has it been burning down here?”
“Dunno that either—wait! Maybe it’s magic!”
Monique isn’t so sure how she feels about that. A magic torch at the bottom of the world’s creepiest stairway did little to ease her misgivings about this whole blasted enterprise.
/> Clifton holds the flickering flame before them and looks down the long corridor.
“Maybe we should go back, Cliff,” says Monique.
But her cousin waves her off and is already heading down the tunnel. She bites her lip. Yes, she could go back up...but that would mean going back up alone in the darkness. Damn her cousin! She pauses only briefly before hurrying after him.
At least we have light, she thinks grimly.
* * *
The tunnel is very quiet. Too quiet. They can hear their breathing and footfalls, and Monique is certain—if she listens hard enough—she can hear her own heart beating.
“More light!” exclaims Clifton, picking up his pace.
Monique sighs and hurries after her foolhardy cousin. She supposed more light was a good thing. Unless it is a bad thing. In that case, they are stuck here, deep beneath the church.
She does her best to push aside her fears, although she is mostly not successful. Soon, however, they come across what appears to be a room. They step carefully from the tunnel and into a circular room...a room lit with three more torches.
Clifton holds the torch aloft, scanning the room. “Dead end,” he reports glumly.
This, of course, is music to Monique’s ears. Yes, now they had to turn back. She says as much.
“Not yet,” he replies. “There’s something about this room. Something weird.”
“It’s just a room—”
“No, it’s not. Look, it’s a perfect circle.”
“I don’t care if it’s a perfect anything. We need to get out of here, Clifton. Right now!”
“Hold on, Mon. Why would anyone build a circular room in a secret tunnel? And look! There’s grooves in the floor next to the wall. I feel a draft coming from the grooves. There’s an opening under here.”
“The only draft is between your ears. Now come on, Cliff.”
“Just give me a minute, will ya? If I don’t find anything, we’ll head back. I swear.”