by Tim Lebbon
At least he has not come alone. He cannot see them, because they are separated by walls, but his friends are close by. He is old and wise, and knows that he can never become so proud that he will turn help aside. He takes comfort from the closeness of his companions.
The gentle movement, the drifting beams of light, carry him further from home and closer to the future he has craved for a hundred years.
15
Though his deep past was a vague, shadowy place, Gregor still experienced occasional flashes from childhood. Because the memories were so clear and powerful, he never doubted that it was his own life he was remembering, and not some memory manufactured from the purpose his life had taken on. They inspired emotions and assaulted his senses like dreams or make-believe never could. And he should know, because make-believe had been at the center of his life forever.
* * *
His parents are in the back yard of their modest home on the outskirts of New Orleans. His mother is sitting in a comfortable chair, long hair gathered by a flowery band, coffee skin glimmering with perspiration. The summer has been hotter than most, and he can smell the aromas of the neighborhood sweltering in the still, heavy air. She is smiling in a strange way, and Gregor—he’s not sure that’s his name back then, although he knows no other—thinks it’s to do with the music playing from the wireless. The wireless is propped in the open kitchen window, and a singer named Elvis is telling the world how he is “all shook up.” Gregor can’t help being excited by the music, as he knows his mother is. He sees that in her uncertain smile, and in the way she seems to be shifting slightly in her seat, as if swept up in the heat haze.
His father is cooking on their outdoor grill, a big metal drum sliced in two and filled with dried wood and charcoal. The fish is freshly caught. Gregor breathes in the scent, and it washes away the smells of the overheated and tired neighborhood.
His mother’s foot moves in time with the music. His father uses a wooden tool to turn the fish, then taps it against the grill. He’s smiling. Sweat drips from his chin into the grill with a sizzle, and his bare back flows with muscle.
* * *
Later, though part of the same memory and loaded with the same music and smells, Gregor is in the large field behind their street. He’s getting older now, almost ten, and last summer his father and mother had a discussion with him about how he must play here safely, if they are to allow him out here at all.
He runs past the old tumbledown shack that most of the neighborhood kids say is haunted. Gregor has yet to work up the courage to go inside, and sometimes if the sun is just right he can see right through the place, in one wall and out the other, and as he watches he’s sure a figure shifts back and forth in there, like an ancient occupier forever drifting from room to room searching for some forgotten thing.
Across the fields past the shack, he approaches the marshy area before the stream. It’s this place that he loves the most. The smells and sounds are all different here, and if the wind’s right—blowing across the fields toward the edge of town, rather than carrying dregs of the town out this way—he can hunker down and hear only wilderness. There’s an age to that sound that he finds thrilling and terrifying. It’s like the breath of the land as it sighs, remembering a time before humankind came and made its indelible mark. No stench of vehicle exhausts and sewage here. No touch of sharp metal and severe angles. No rock and roll.
He steps across the marsh, picking his way with care. It soon becomes a confusion of water and islets, heavy reeds hiding both safety and danger from view, but Gregor knows his way. He also knows that there are gators out here, but he hasn’t seen one for some time. It’s part of the danger, part of the thrill.
* * *
He’s sitting on his favorite little island in the middle of the stream. It’s thirty steps from side to side, but there are several trees growing there, and reeds and undergrowth, and a space at its highest central point where he can sit and look out without being seen from the shore. It’s his secret place, and Gregor has come to discover that he likes being hidden away from the world. He likes being a secret.
Sometimes he fantasizes about living here. He could bring supplies over the space of a few weeks, and then one day just… vanish. He’d dig a hole in the ground between the trees and cover it over, making his home doubly hidden from anyone who comes searching. He’d expand it, with maybe a living space and a bedroom, and he’d bring food and water enough to last him a couple of weeks. He knows how to fish, and he could boil water from the river to drink.
Just him, unknown and eventually forgotten.
Of course, he loves his parents and could never leave them. But it’s good to dream.
Sitting with his back against one of the trees, at first he thinks the commotion in the water is a gator. He freezes, a surge of fear mingling with excitement. Peering through the leaves, he sees something slick and gray slipping from the water and up onto the island’s shore. It’s small, perhaps the size of his leg, and for a while it remains so motionless that he wonders if it’s just a log. But the stream doesn’t flow fast here, certainly not enough to wash a log this size up onto the island.
Gregor reaches forward and grabs an overhanging branch. As he pulls it he loses sight of the thing for a moment, and then when he holds the branch aside he sees it again. It’s sitting up and staring right at him.
His world changes in that moment.
The creature is propped up on two strong arms, blond hair wet and matted, pale skin slick from water and mud, breasts perfectly proportioned to its small, human body.
It has the face of a woman, only smaller than any woman he has ever seen.
The tail of a fish.
“Don’t fear me,” the thing says. The branch slips through Gregor’s hand. Panicked, desperate to see the creature again, he leaps forward past the overhanging tree and toward the shore. He hears a hurried slither and a splash, and once clear of the branches and leaves, resting on his hands and knees just feet from where the thing emerged, he realizes he is alone once more.
The ripples in the water are already echoing from both shores.
“Come back!” he shouts. He breathes in deeply, but smells nothing unusual. He crawls forward into the water, his hands sinking in the mud, and he even dips his face beneath the surface. He opens his eyes but sees nothing. The water is heavy with silt.
He resurfaces, spluttering filthy water.
“Come back!” he shouts again. “Please.”
The creature does not come back, that day or the next. Gregor comes to that place for the next seven days, sometimes at the same time as before, sometimes at dawn or dusk, waiting for the strange thing to emerge from the river again.
He looks in his father’s books and figures out what it is he has seen. Mermaid. Too young for true romantic love, too old to forget what he has seen, Gregor is tortured by her non-return.
Then on the eighth day he is joined by someone else.
“I may have a use for you,” the old voice says. “A course for you to follow. When I finish writing it, I’ll give it to you.”
Gregor cannot make out the man, because it’s close to dusk and he hides in the undergrowth. Something about the way he hides forbids Gregor to approach. He’s scared, but also drawn by what the man says.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jace Tan.”
“Are you… like her?”
“I’m Kin, yes.”
“Just you? Her?”
“We’re two of many. I’ve been watching you for a long time, Gregor. I think you might be the person I need. Listen to me, follow my script, and you’ll come to know us much better. I have a great journey for you to undertake, a great project to fulfill, and more.”
“More?” Gregor asks.
“Much more. I’ve seen you watching for us. I’ve sensed your sense of wonder. I taste your thirst for knowledge, and I can see the shades in your mind… the shades where the shadows of the Kin fall. I’ll pull those shado
ws from your eyes. I’ll let you see it all. You’re someone who can help me, and for that I’m willing to help you.”
“Help me how?” Gregor asks. He isn’t sure why, but the sound of this voice is like a song from a larger, wider world, one which Gregor realizes he has been seeking all his young life. It is only natural that, offered some glimpse into this world, he will ask for more.
The man pauses for a moment as he looks into Gregor’s soul, and when he replies there’s a hint of humor in his voice.
“Help you see more. My great project is a meeting of worlds, a bridge between the world of Kin and humankind. And the only way it will succeed is for your eyes to be opened. Your fate to be changed. For you to become Kin.”
16
“I want to speak with my mother.”
They were waiting at another bus station. Old Itch said they had to head into the hills, although he’d ceased examining her scars so much. He was becoming more and more agitated the further they went.
“She speaks to me, in my head, but now I want to speak to her.” A dawning fear was clouding Sammi’s mind. A deep realization, filled with danger and threat.
“We’ll be there soon,” Old Itch said.
“That’s not good enough anymore, Old Itch,” she replied.
He winced. She could see he didn’t like the name, but his hand went to his chest yet again, scratching at the wound visible there. It was unchanging. It neither healed, nor grew any worse.
“We have to see this through,” Old Itch said. “She demands it. If we don’t—”
“My mother?” Sammi asked.
“Yes, your mother.” But Sammi could tell by the pause that he hadn’t meant her mother at all.
She was ready to run. Every instinct told her it was the right thing to do, and since taking a seat in the corner of the bus station’s open waiting area, she had worked herself up three times to the point where her muscles quivered and she imagined sprinting toward the exit.
Soon, very soon, her mother’s voice whispered. You’ll see me soon.
These were the words that kept her from running. Her concerns persisted, concern for her father remained, and she felt more like a prisoner with every hour that passed. Yet her mother’s voice whispering in her ear, in her head, prevented her from taking action.
She’s dead, she thought. You’re dead.
You’ll see me soon, her mother said.
A dozen times, a hundred, this silent exchange stirred her doubts and desires. And though deep down she knew it was impossible, she grabbed at any slight chance of seeing her mother again.
Old Itch sat and scratched, looking down at his feet, so it was Sammi who saw the old man first. He walked slowly across the waiting area, and the woman who held his hand reminded Sammi so much of Old Itch. She was the opposite sex, much younger, dressed very differently, but there was something in her eyes that echoed her own companion. A hollowness. A desperation.
Sammi caught her breath when the old man saw her watching. She saw herself in him. He looked both confused and hopeful, wearing the expression of someone seeking something they had previously believed out of reach.
It was a warm day, and on the man’s bare forearm she could see the tattoo-spread of scars from a lightning strike.
“Just like me,” she said, and Old Itch looked up.
As the man paused and frowned, Old Itch rushed across the paved area to meet the woman. It was a strange encounter. They stood close but did not touch, and despite hurrying together they didn’t seem pleased to see each other. After a brief conversation they parted again.
“We have help,” Old Itch said. For the first time ever he exuded an emotion other than vague concern. It might even have been subdued excitement. “Come with me.”
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Friends.”
“She didn’t look like a friend.”
“We’ll help each other find the way,” he replied. “Come on. The two of you together.”
Sammi stood, and again almost bolted for the door. She was ready. Her own inner voice was starting to outweigh the voice that might or might not have been her mother’s.
Something’s not right here, she thought, and Mom would want me to take care.
Then she saw the same look of restrained fear in the old man’s eyes, and she realized that Old Itch might have been right. She really might have found a friend.
She left Old Itch behind and approached the man.
“Were you struck?” she asked.
He nodded, looking at the spread of veinous patterns on her neck, shoulder, and arm.
“I’m Sammi. He says he’s taking me to my mother.”
“Jeff,” he said. “It’s Mary she’s taking me to. In my head, I hear her…” He trailed off, frowning.
“You hear her telling you to carry on,” Sammi said. “It’s lies. They’re lying to you, to me, and I think we have to—” A hand closed around Sammi’s arm and moved her away. It felt too cool, cold, not lifeless but shorn of life. The woman holding her—Jeff’s companion—was an image projected onto the scene, fuzzy around the edges and two-dimensional. She had small pointed ears, sharp features, thin arms and legs too long for her body, and her eyes were tiny specks in the unhuman landscape of her face. They looked as empty of life as her touch.
“This is our bus,” the woman said. Her lips were out of sync with her words.
As Sammi and Jeff were led onto the bus, they were far enough apart that they couldn’t talk. When they boarded, Old Itch and the woman guided them toward the back, sitting them together on the back seat, Old Itch on Sammi’s right, the woman on Jeff’s left. It felt good, the heat of a living person. Jeff reminded Sammi of her father.
She felt tears threatening, but then Old Itch and the woman leaned forward and started talking past them, ignoring their presence.
“We’re close,” the woman said. “Forty miles, maybe sixty.”
“Yes, I see that too.”
“And here,” the woman said. She grabbed Sammi’s arm and pulled it forward, exposing the marks on the inside of her elbow. “A more detailed location, don’t you think?”
“He has that?” Old Itch asked.
“On his back. Right shoulder, exactly the same.”
“Good,” Old Itch said. “Good.”
“Where are you taking us?” Sammi asked.
“To Mary,” Jeff said.
“No, not to Mary!” Sammi said. “And not to my mother!” Her voice rose, and she caught a warning look between the people—the two things—who were accompanying them. Because something had slipped. In Old Itch’s excitement, at drawing closer to his destination, and meeting the woman, he had let go of whatever fugue he maintained around or inside Sammi’s mind.
She still heard whispers of her mother’s voice, but now she could feel them rising from her own memories, not implanted by someone or something else. For the first time since the lightning strike, it felt like her dead mother really was talking to her. That’s what memories were, Sammi knew, because she and her dad had often talked about them.
Her mom was talking to her from the past and telling her that things were wrong.
Dusk was falling. The bus was moving. They edged out onto the freeway and headed west, sunset splashing across the distant hills and smearing the clouds with a palette of soft colors. Sammi eased back into her seat, knowing that there was nothing she could do right now. With doubts seeded, however, they began to bloom. Jeff and the promise to find his dead wife… it was so similar to Sammi being taken to her dead mother.
We were both twice-struck, she thought. What does that mean? What are the chances? She glanced at Jeff sitting beside her, and perhaps it was because Old Itch and the woman were there, but she noticed that Jeff also didn’t look quite right. There was an angular strangeness about his head, as if it had been melted and reformed, flattened on the sides and protruding on top.
Who is he? she wondered. What is he? And what is she? The woman with
him had grown still, vague, almost-there. Just like Old Itch when they’d first met. I could see through him then, and I’m starting to see through him again.
Sammi closed her eyes and envisioned her father as she’d last seen him, standing outside their riverside house and waving her in for their Chinese meal. She would get back to him soon. She would escape and run home.
Though she feigned sleep, she remained awake and alert. After a time she heard Jeff snoring softly beside her, and then she sensed a presence by her side, leaning forward across her lap. She dared not open her eyes.
“She’ll be pleased,” Old Itch whispered.
“Of course she will.”
“She’ll let us go.”
“Set us free.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Their voices grew quieter and then faded to nothing. Sammi concentrated on the movement of the bus, road lights passing over her closed eyelids, the weight of Jeff sleeping beside her.
She made her plans.
* * *
“I need the bathroom,” she said. She stood and yawned, stretching, and walked toward the small bathroom at the back of the bus. She didn’t dare look back to see if Old Itch was watching, or even following, because that gesture would warn him of her intent.
The bathroom was small and cramped, hot and smelly, and as Sammi entered, she glanced across at the emergency exit. The door was closed and locked, but if she had timed her visit well—if the signs she’d glimpsed through the side windows were correct, if the bus had a regular scheduled stop in the next town—she’d have time to open it and slip out. Soon.
She closed the bathroom door and leaned against it. She really did need a pee, but she didn’t want to start in case the bus stopped earlier than she’d anticipated. So much relied on chance. Would Old Itch be expecting her to run? Would he and the strange woman be blinded to the danger by their eagerness to reach whoever they were trying to find?
Sammi had attempted to read what they saw in her markings, but she saw only weird, beautiful patterns, and the only memory they inspired was of her father and the doctor joking in the hospital.