Lies of the Prophet

by Ike Hamill

  Carol took her shoes and socks off halfway across. She had only stolen one pair of shoes from her sister and she didn’t want to get them wet. On the sand recently vacated by the tide, tiny green bioluminescent plankton underfoot looked like pale stars spread across the sand. Jenko left his shoes on, but he never seemed to get them wet. He was good at finding just the right place to step in the dim starlight.

  Carol closed her eyes as she walked and tried to pretend that Don was with her; that the previous two years hadn’t happened and they still had their life together to look forward to. Somewhere in the back of her head her constant disappointment with Don nagged. He’d been the best boyfriend she’d ever had, all things considered. He was never mean, and worshipped her completely in a way that men who really attracted her never did. But he lacked somewhat of a spark, and that’s danced around the edges of her happy memories.

  “What’s up?” asked Jenko.

  “Huh?”

  “You stopped. I thought we were going all the way out to the island?” asked Jenko.

  “Yeah, we are,” said Carol.

  When they’d arrived at the rocks on the other side, Carol patted them carefully to find a dry spot where she could sit to put her shoes back on. She’d been on the island several times with bare feet and didn’t want to cut herself on the jagged rocks in the dark.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Jenko.

  “We’re going to go to the place where Don proposed to me,” said Carol. “It’s up on the top near the memorial.”

  “What’s it a memorial to?”

  “Some kid who drowned a long time ago,” said Carol.

  “Romantic,” said Jenko.

  “It’s a nice spot. I don’t think Don was really thinking about what the memorial signified, just that it was a nice spot.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to poke fun,” said Jenko.

  “It’s okay,” said Carol. “It was our spot. You don’t have to understand.”

  She turned and climbed with her hands and feet, placing each carefully because she couldn’t see very well. Jenko followed easily. At the top of the rocks the ocean was an inky black abyss, all the way to the horizon where the stars began. Carol looked away, it was too hard to look at all that black—all that open expanse made her dizzy. She turned away from from ocean entirely, putting it at her back.

  The sandbar at the bottom of the hill was the one visible landmark in the starlight. It made her uncomfortable having the ocean at her back as well, like she would fall backwards into the blackness. She shivered and her teeth clattered despite the warm night. Below, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks swelled louder.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jenko. He stepped closer to her side.

  “I guess,” said Carol. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I guess I expected something different; like I’d feel Don here, but it just feels lonely. So empty.”

  “I’ve experienced a lot of things,” said Jenko. “But I’ve never had any contact from a dead person when there wasn’t a medium around. I’ve always thought that whatever we become after we’ve passed is just too weak or too different to communicate to the living directly. Don’t be disappointed if your husband is not able to punch through with some kind of sign, it just means that he’s like everyone else who has passed.”

  “No,” said Carol. She shook her head in the dark as if to clear away his words. “Don said he’d give me a sign, and he will.”

  “It could even be that our souls are like recordings. Once our body dies, there’s nothing left to play them—no animus to pull the strings, you know? What Billy did was spin that record one more time, but it’s not going to happen without Billy here, you know?”

  “Just give him some time,” said Carol.

  “Okay,” said Jenko. “Some time. I’ll be over here. I’ll let you know when we have to get moving because of the tide.”

  Carol braced herself and turned back toward the black ocean. It still made her uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to show uncertainty in front of Jenko. She didn’t want to betray Don’s memory. She thought back to looking into Billy’s eyes after Don had borrowed them. He wasn’t just a recording being played back—she’d seen the life in those eyes. Carol sat on the edge of the memorial stone. The name of the kid was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite get it. He had swam after someone to rescue them from the rip tide, but he ended up the victim of the current. His family and friends had put up the stone to honor his memory.

  She sat with her shoulders hunched and her eyes on the horizon, listening to the crashing waves and thinking about Don. She replayed in her mind the day they had met, when she’d first asked him out, their first kiss, all the details she could remember. At first she tried to suppress the unpleasant memories, but then she just let them come. She remembered it all, and sat on the stone until her butt was numb.

  Jenko touched her shoulder and she jumped, nearly panicked.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We’ve got to get going before the sandbar is gone. It looks like it gets deep quick.”

  “He told me to come here. He asked me to come here and wait for a signal. That’s what he said—a signal. You go ahead and I’ll wait. I can make my own way,” she said.

  “Come on,” said Jenko. “I’m not going to leave you here.”

  “Did you hear that?” asked Carol.

  “What?”

  “That! Shhh. Wait,” she said. She stood up on her tired, half-numb legs and strained her eyes against the black.

  He finally heard it. It sounded like a cat, a very angry cat.

  “Come on,” said Carol. She started to make her way down the steep rocks on the ocean-side of the island. Jenko didn’t know the island, but he could sense enough to know that those rocks fell off at a pretty severe angle down into the crashing waves.

  “Carol, wait, where are you going?”

  “Come on!” she yelled. “It’s a baby. You can hear it better from down here.”

  “It can’t be a baby,” said Jenko. He sighed and started to pick his way down the rocks.

  She was right—he could hear it much better once he was down the rocks a little further. Having the rock wall at his back reflected the sound better and he could hear the howling and crying clearly. A persuasive mental image began to form in Jenko’s mind—somehow a cat, perhaps eating a washed up fish or crab, had become stuck out on a rock. The rising tide had trapped the poor cat and now he was howling at the rising waves.

  “Can’t you hear it? It’s a baby. It might be my baby. My real baby. This is the signal Don sent,” she yelled. He could hear her sliding and scraping down the rocks—casting away care for speed.

  In Jenko’s mind he wasn’t just picturing a stranded cat, now he was picturing a particular stranded cat. Somehow Lynne’s cat, Domi, had made his way out to this island and had gotten himself into a jam. Jenko was interested in helping the poor thing, but not at the risk of his own life. A particularly big wave crashed on the rocks below and splashed up enough foam to make Jenko’s eyes sting. That much water should have drowned the cat, but he was still howling in the black.

  They were far enough down the face of the rocks that everything was black. The only light was from the bowl of stars above, and that was hardly enough to see the next place to put a foot down. Jenko froze and tried to get his bearings, but he couldn’t see the beach anymore—that was behind the rocks. The lights of the town up the coast were blocked as well.

  Farther away than he expected, Carol cried out in the darkness.

  “Carol?” yelled Jenko. “Carol?”

  The cat’s cries turned into a growl and then a scream.

  “Carol!” Jenko shouted. He crab-walked over the rocks, towards where he’d heard her shout. One of his feet slipped on a wet rock and he had to stop his slide with a blind hand, earning him a deep gash on his palm. The pain and the flow of fresh blood heightened his sense of urgency. “Carol!”

  He heard a low moan
and he scrambled towards it. The cat wasn’t making noise anymore. His foot found her first—a soft spot amongst the hard rocks, that pulled back when he put his weight down.

  “Is that you?” asked Jenko. He reached out and found her arm. “Carol?”

  “I’m stuck,” she said. Her voice was low and resigned.

  “Stuck how? What are you stuck on?” Jenko raised his voice over the next crashing wave. A bucket’s worth of water splashed against his side, wetting his pants.

  “A rock is on my leg,” she said.

  Jenko moved hand-over-hand down her body until he found the spot where he leg was pinned. Somewhere around her calf, her leg disappeared into a crack between two rocks. Her whole leg was wet, but somewhere below her knee the wetness became slightly warm and sticky. She cried out when he touched that spot. One of the rocks wobbled when he pulled.

  They both heard the same thing this time—a few yards away in the utter black, a baby or a very small child shrieked. Jenko wondered how he could have ever confused that voice with a cat.

  “My baby,” Carol moaned.

  “That’s not your baby,” said Jenko. “We have to get out of here.”

  He tugged against the rock, trying to move it enough to free Carol’s leg. He pulled with both hands, bracing his legs against the vertical face of the rocks, but his grip kept slipping, carving cuts into his fingers and palms. With one pull he jerked the rock and moved it a couple of inches, but when his hands pulled free he tore a fingernail from his ring finger and nearly fell backwards into the crashing waves.

  The child’s shriek turned into a devilish laugh. Jenko felt his strength ebbing away, replacing his resolve with fear.

  “My baby,” Carol said again.

  “Carol, that’s not your baby,” Jenko yelled.

  He pulled at the rock again and got unexpected help from Carol. She was pushing at the rock, as if to push Jenko away.

  “Let me go. Let me go,” she said.

  The rock rolled off her foot and scraped the side of Jenko’s leg as it fell away. If not for her injured leg, Carol might have thrown herself from the rocks and crashed down into the swirling ocean. Instead, she lurched and slipped when she tried to apply weight to the bad leg. Jenko caught her around the waist and held her back.

  “Not yours,” Jenko grunted. He pulled back and held her against his hip while he started to climb. Her struggle slowed with each step away from the waves.

  “Okay, but listen. Listen!” she yelled. “Maybe that’s not my baby, but it’s somebody’s baby. Shouldn’t we save that baby?”

  “That’s not a baby,” said Jenko.

  “What is it then?” she screamed.

  “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not a baby out in the ocean in the middle of the night. Think about it,” he said, tugging her unprotesting body away a little farther. When they were about halfway up the slope, just as Jenko’s strength was nearly gone, Carol started to climb too. They crested the top side-by-side. Jenko held his hands close to his face to assess his injuries, but he couldn’t really see anything. Carol shifted her weight to reduce the pain in her bad leg.

  They stood at the top of the hill on either side of the memorial stone.

  “Look at that,” said Jenko.

  “Look at what?” asked Carol.

  “Right there,” he pointed. When he realized that she couldn’t see which direction he was pointing, he stepped behind her and turned her head in the direction he meant.

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s that phosphorescent algae or whatever like we saw on the beach. It glows when it gets stirred up,” said Don.

  They were looking at a murky green stripe that led across the water parallel to the coast.

  “What stirred them up?” asked Carol.

  “Who knows,” said Jenko. “But whatever it was, it must have happened while we were down on the side of the rocks. It wasn’t there before.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Carol. “Maybe it’s Don’s signal?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Jenko. “Check out that light, that’s new too." At the end of the ghostly-green trail, a light twinkled on the edge of the horizon. “It’s halfway between that lighthouse and the point there. We should be able to figure out where it is.”

  “Do you think it’s Don’s signal?” Carol asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “In a way I think it is, but it feels wrong too,” said Carol. “Does that make sense?”

  “Nope. Not at all. Let’s get back to shore before the tide comes in. Can you make it on that leg?” asked Jenko.

  “I think so, but I’m going to need some help getting down this hill,” said Carol.

  “No problem,” said Jenko.

  When they got back to the car, Jenko pulled out a map of the coast.

  “Interesting,” said Jenko, with the map on his lap. He was tracing lines from the island in the direction he supposed they’d been looking.

  “What’s that?” asked Carol.

  “I’m pretty sure we were looking off this way,” he said as he made a line. “That’s almost clear water all the way to North Point except for here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Donovan’s island,” said Jenko.

  “Donovan—that’s Don’s full name,” said Carol.

  “I think we’re going to have to rent a boat,” said Jenko.

  Chapter 11

  Gregory Ascends

  “IT’S JUST A HEDGE, HONEY, it doesn’t mean anything,” said Dylan, Marta’s husband.

  She turned her back on him again, as she had so many times. This time she made herself busy rearranging cans and boxes on the shelves of their pantry. Marta moved Gregory’s box of cereal further to the back—they would never finish it now that he was gone.

  “It’s not a big deal, I just thought it looked kinda tacky to have those trampled bushes out there,” said Dylan.

  “You’re just not planning ahead,” she said as she turned on him. “What if they come back tomorrow? There could be some new sensation and our lawn could be covered with reporters again and they’d stomp all over your new bushes just like they did the last ones. Those people have no regard for our property. Even the police couldn’t keep them off the lawn. So all that money you spent is going to be wasted. Chewed up underfoot.”

  “It’s been months, babe,” said Dylan. “They’re not coming back. We’re old news now. We can move on with our lives.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Marta.

  “It doesn’t make any sense to just hide in here, waiting,” said Dylan. “Let’s move on. You never liked being at the center of that storm anyway. I think it’s nice having a little privacy back." She turned around as he wrapped his arms around her, so he was hugging her back to his chest. Dylan bent his head and kissed the side of her neck.

  Marta wanted to let go—to give in to his logic—but she was stubborn. She knew that once she let go, it would all start to be over. The center of the storm had been an apt way to put it, but the problem was that she had liked it. She’d liked the sneaking around, the disguises, helping Gregory make his way to secret locations for his interviews. She’d liked waiting on him while he wrote his book, and talking with him in the middle of the night while the storm of reporters and curious citizens raged outside the house. They’d reached a tenuous equilibrium with all the people who wanted to get a look at the immortal man. A burned dirt circle was carved into the lawn by all the milling, pacing feet, and everyone knew to keep outside that line.

  Even without the police presence, the crowd at least kept to that line. Sometimes a person would get too excited and would run up to the shaded windows, or press their ear against the bolted door. One of the other onlookers would usually drag them away. They had at least that much respect. With each new day it seemed a little more normal. When Gregory’s former house next door sold to a media company, it seemed perfectly rational to Marta. The press would move in and become a permanent presence in
their lives. They’d be a legitimate presence.

  As much as Marta acclimated to the intrusion and lack of privacy, Dylan fought it. He spent his time lodging complaints with the police, chasing reporters off the lawn, and trying to shield the house from their prying eyes. Gregory would have been fine if Dylan hadn’t made such as fuss. Marta watched it happen. Given no dissenting opinions, she and Gregory could have just lived in the house forever, ignoring the reporters. But Gregory saw the fighting between Marta and Dylan. Gregory knew he was the source of the unrest. Marta couldn’t come right out and tell Gregory what she felt—that she was happier even with the arguing. At least the fighting was a relationship.

  The situation had exploded one afternoon. Dylan had returned home after a hard day. Marta was cooking dinner and Gregory was in the den with the door closed, working on his book.

  “Marta? Where’s the phone?” Dylan had bellowed, just through the door.

  “Keep it down,” said Marta. “Gregory’s trying to work.”

  “He’ll be okay,” said Dylan. “What did you do with the phone? It’s not on the charger.”

  “I think it’s in the den,” she motioned for him to quiet down, but it wasn’t working. “Why don’t you use your cell phone?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” Daryl had said.

  If Marta had been thinking clearly that afternoon, that would have been her signal. You had to be on Daryl’s side when he got angry. His ability to listen to logic would occasionally evaporate, and you were either on his side or not—and god help you if you were not. On that day, the day of the big explosion, the day that Gregory decided to move out, Marta was not.

  “Don’t call me stupid, it’s a perfectly reasonable question. Where’s your phone?” she asked.

  “Where’s his phone? Why’s he always using ours?” asked Daryl.

  “His contract got cancelled. You remember. We talked about that days ago,” said Marta.