Ch. 1 Train to the Sea

8/3/2019 Ch. 1 Train to the Sea

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I used to have a kingdom, I used to have a queen,

But it faded all away …

-I-

Train to the Sea

There is a place, somewhere, where the land greets the

sea. Birds sing, the winds play, and the remnants of the

dying sun still caress the curves of the ocean. In this

place, you may find me, waiting to board a train.

As a child I used to dream a dream over and again of

riding a train to the sea. I would wake in the dark hours

of the morning when the fog still wandered in whispered

movements, and when the earth was very much alive and

softly breathing unbeknownst to the contentment of

sleepers.

I would wake with all my clothes on and creep gently

along the seaside road, the smell of the station‟s old -wood

and iron finding me, refreshing my wonder as I neared.

There was the station, and there was the giant

locomotive, steam billowing from the chimney and dome, the

warm hiss from the pistons near the wheels and tracks. I

would leap upon the train and find a compartment to myself,

and my heart would race as I looked out the window to see



us bid farewell to all things above the water. The candles

were lit and the flames swayed like forests of kelp in the

undercurrents. The velvet curtains near the windows were

pulled back and tied tight. The wheels began to move and I

had said goodbye to no one.

I found a train to the sea.

The train moved onward, downward, and I looked to the

shore to see the sun rise like fire on the great waters and

watched as my train headed straight into it, a strange

Viking funeral of my own creation. And as the day began, so

did it leave me as I plunged into a vivid blue. Tracks and

rails were blurred and the world took on a wonderful motion

and everything swayed with a lazy rhythm.

But it was too much. Darkness embraced the train as we

fathomed deeper. The coldness found my skin and pierced

through. From the icy and misted windows, dark shadows swam

through the deep to become horrid figures. I was taken with

fear as the flames of the candles failed me and the water

broke through the glass, my skin burning with the merciless

cold of the black water. It filled my lungs and gripped my

heart and the last moments of my waning vision swayed with

the soft glow of a beckoning form moving towards me weeping

a distant melody in the dark.



But here, I see nothing and hear only the remnant

pitter-patter of the dying rain.

The rain. My nemesis, my foreboding vessel, that which

washed away the colors in my sights. That cruel rain.

But this is a gentle madness, and I feel its genesis

fading. I am flying home, eastbound to the shore, high

above and over the leagues of rolling wheat fields and low

green grasses veined with slow streams. Smoothly and

quickly through the dark warm air, down from the hills to

where the dark sparkle and blue of the sea reaches the

white sands, across and beyond a large bay giving home to a

lovely village by the sea.

I fly south past the village where the fog drifts

lazily with tendril fingers tickling the shore, past the

trees along the seaside road, where I fall upon a small

home on a beach of black sand.

The boat was gone, its absence appalling, a burrowing

elegy. Its buoy marker drifts untethered beyond the

breakers, away from the shore, where a woman stands alone,

drinking apple cider to ease an aching throat. Her eyes are

towards the water and the winds pass by her ears in

cacophonous tones. It is a sanctuary of type.

And it is now a quiet place.



I could smell the soil through the water. The north

wind flew across the bay, carrying with it the scent of

lavender and gardenias. I took in a lung-full and dove

deep.

The water was full of angular shafts of light drifting

to darkness some thirty feet below. I could see things move

down there, the shadows of great fish shying from my

intrusion, or perhaps the playful reverence of migrating

humpback whales feeding near the surface and singing to one

another, though I knew it was too early in the season for

the gliding giants and their songs.

After a couple of minutes I breached the surface and

exhaled, long and slow. My body stood the temperature and

the sun‟s rays painted the surface morning calm.

There was laughter nearby.

A bank of fog retreated to the great sea beyond the

mouth of the bay. Between the mouth and I lay a small sail

with two old men pulling at the lines. Still a ways away

but within earshot, I whistled to them and waved. My

whistle was a bad one. It came out a wet sputter.

I swam up to the men in the skiff, an old single-sail

catboat. The paint was peeling away from the hull, there

were cracks in the wood, an ancient thing.



I blew the water from my lips. “Ahoy.”

The two smiled at each other.

“Good to see you, Shandon, been a while,” Jamins said.

He was wearing what looked to be a potato sack. Frankie, a

striped shirt and shorts. Frankie leaned out to take my

hand with his, wrinkled and tanned. I swatted it aside,

pulled myself in and shook my long wet hair, showering the

both of them.

“Thanks Shandon,” Jamins said.

“Yeah, tha nks mate, ” Frankie said.

“No problem, gents,” I said, looking down at three

fish sluggishly squirming just below the surface of the

water, a rope running through their gills, “how‟s the catch

treating you?”

With a dismissive gesture, Frankie passed the question

to Jamins, who usually spoke for the two. “C ould be better,

as always, couple mackerel, a yellow- fin. No sharks… yet.”

He eyed me with a wry smirk.

“Wouldn‟t be many sh arks in the bay with that giant

s quid still hunting these waters.”

Jamins and Frankie smiled and nodded.

“What‟re ya doing up so early Shandon?” asked Frankie.

“Oh, you know, catchin‟ the worm.”



“You drifted quite a bit a way‟s from your beach,”

said Jamins, looking south towards my house and the nursery

beside it. “Current pull you out?”

I didn‟t quite know. “I guess so. I was just swimming

around and here I am.”

“Well, do you need a lift home?”

“No thanks, but if you‟re heading back to town, I‟ll

gladly tag along.” My arms felt all no odley, but I needed

to check on the market to see how my last delivery had been

selling.

We sailed north across the deepest waters of the bay

towards the small marina. Jamins and Frankie were done for

the morning, and I knew where they were headed, where every

fisherman ached for after a disappointing day.

The wind had picked up with the rising sun, it made

the water ripple along in anxious shimmers, and I felt it

blow cold on my wet skin.

We passed the moments in silence. I looked to the

east, the coastline was scattered with thick green trees,

long vines and giant leaves hiding their trunks. They

stretched some leagues from the village down along the

small dirt seaside road to my nursery and house shrinking

in the distance along the pepper-gray sand at the southern-



most pocket of the bay, the only beach to have any waves at

all.

There were green hills rising from the coastline

rolling smoothly northward and eastward, where sugarcane

was planted beyond the sights of the village. And far to

the east, leagues upon leagues of wheat fields grew in the

old tradition.

I came back to Jamins saying something that caught my

ear.

“…is always here at night, and I heard her once, v oice

carrying past the breakers. ”

“What‟re you guys talking about?” I asked.

They eyed me for a moment. “Oh, a… nothin‟ Shando n,

just talking about the wind,” Frankie said.

“What of it, she singing to you?”

“No, no, mate. Just windy sometimes, out here, well,

you know…”

So I looked out there, to the west, where the bay

opened to the wide berth of the ocean, azure and mystic in

its vastness. There were no clouds to the western horizon

and the fog had burned away, only a faint blue so lit by

the sun that its gleam ran white with the touching sky. I

felt small looking into that whiteness. It felt like the



center of things, as though I could peer outside from where

the whiteness came, like a window to somewhere else.

I tried to let it pass with the wake of the boat under

its flapping sails in the morning light. I looked past the

mouth of the bay to the deep sea glistening with life,

calming. And I could feel something pulling me out, a

current above the water like a wind within me. There was a

sound too, small but deep, as though it took its time in

reaching me.

It was melodic, alluring, like a voice. I found it

disturbing that I should feel tempted by my own being to

jump from the boat and swim away from the land, to follow

the source of the sound. It came back to the whiteness,

where the light was reflecting off the waters, blurring my

eyes as they reached the line where the ocean met the sky.

And leagues from the shelter of our bay, the trembling

mirages of light melted to a single visage, a shimmering

figure, in ballet, dancing like a phantom across the

sparkling blue horizon.

I stared at this thing for a long moment. I brushed

blonde hair from my face. Jamins was speaking to me.

“What?” I asked.

Jamins looked at me. “Didn‟t say nothin‟.”



“Oh. Right, well,” I stuttered, thinking of something

to say. “You two didn‟t see that?”

Jamins and Frankie looked where I looked, then they

stared at each other.

“Right,” I said.

I splashed some water on my face, smelling once again

the salt and wood and canvas and subtle remnants of fish.

The three of us enjoyed the growing daylight as we neared

the marina at the north end of the bay, closest to the

village.

Jamins navigated the docks to find his slip at the far

end. We pulled in and they went about tying things up.

“Thanks for the lift , old-timers, can I help out with

anything?” I asked, already unloading their tackle box and

fishing poles.

Jamins tossed my comment aside with a hand. “Go on

Shandon, we‟ll finish up.”

I left them to their cleanup and walked along the

dock, where I noticed a small rowboat slowly spinning free

of its slip. One of its oars had jumped ship and took a

path of its own in the dirty water. I tried to lean out and

grab the boat, but it passed just beyond my reach. Now

untethered, both the rowboat and the oar drifted away from



the dock and from each other. Two little lost galaxies in

an expanding universe.

I left the docks and turned south to walk down the

dirt road to my village. The morning was alive with the cry

of a whooping crane and buzzing insects hovering over the

stagnant muddy waters near the reeds piping their shunk -

hollow melodies in the wind. And I walked the road, keeping

tempo with happy feet, bare to the soft earth.

My village had a main street bordered with shops and

businesses. The road ran short and wide with a wooden

walkway trimming the entryways all the way down from the

north to the south end. There was the bank with high

ceilings and wood shingles, a balcony from the second story

that wrapped around the whole building where the bank owner

could be seen in his multi-colored corduroy vests enjoying

cigars from the swinging bench facing the beach during

sunset.

On weekends the balcony would be overran with his

children and every other kid in town, and it would

transform into their fortress for war, flinging stones and

pinecones to the invading pirates coming from the sea only

meters from the west side of the tall building.



I sold my plants to a one-story but wide open-aired

market that always smelled rich with fruits and flowers and

plants. It was just preparing to open.

But there was little activity in the village today,

clouds rose from the eastern hills and began to gather dark

and slightly ominous over the sun, casting its first

shadows of the morning. There was a fresh scent lingering

in the wet air, and my nose could detect a mild smell of

burning mesquite chips coming from my favorite place in

town, The Tavern.

My village being a village, it had but only one tavern

and it was The Tavern, its name long forgotten and sign

outside long weathered away. I believe it did have a name

once, but now the faded oak board hanging outward from the

entryway merely remained fixed so that it might measure the

breeze.

No, to us it was just our old tavern, with ancient

woods from an ancient forest. Dark woods that held the

stories it for so long absorbed as nutrients. It had a

comforting darkness with its old oak benches, stained so

many years before, barrels that actually held a proper

drink. There were even legs of meat hanging near the back



and its scent swooned with the ever-present olive, big

green and black ones, soaking in wine and herbs.

There was also the salt. Only steps from the water,

there was always salt inside the tavern, though that may

have more to do with there not being any doors. It had a

doorway of course, but it was the doorlessness that gave

way to the casualness of the place. As dark and musky as it

was, it always kept you conscious of the weather outside

because it was always looming in the corner of your eye. In

the early hours of the tavern, and yes it patron‟s to many

of those types, the fog can be found creeping in. Why, it

may even stay for a drink. The barkeep maintained a burning

furnace to keep the place warm in winter.

But lately the days have been strange ones. The summer

is upon us and yet we still see dark clouds every night.

But they never break, and the rain never comes.

I walked up the stone steps placed like a chain of

islands floating over a sea of green moss. There was a

spotted green tree frog near the edge of the small pond by

the old stone bench outside the doorway. It looked at me

and licked its eye.

“And a good day to you, sir,” I said.



I entered through the doorway wrapped in cool ivy

vines and continued with the customary greeting to all.

“Fine days to this house.”

They responded to me in kind, “And fine days to thee . ”

It was an ageless greeting. The niceties.

The darkness of the tavern leaned away from the jovial

light outside. You could hear those passing by like pebbles

drifting down a brook. I imagined them bussing about,

congregating in various businesses, conducting various

forms of business.

But this early the street and all remained still.

There was no rain, the gathering clouds drifted lazily

without sound. A quiet morning, one where the stillness

blankets you, and if you looked close enough, you could

almost see the breeze.

I shuffled to my favorite spot at the bar, west end,

nearest the window that faces the sea. I looked around.

There were few gentlemen here this morning, but of those

faces all were familiar to me. These early drinkers were

seamen, and they wore that pride with hunched shoulders

cradling their dark pints with a self-assured well-deserved

jealous thirst. Their woven clothing was light and tattered

and dulled by the sun and the sea. Most wore leather-

strapped sandals at their feet. Many, like mine, were bare.



Life at sea was quiet in speech and loud at heart, they

would challenge a squall with a grimace and welcome the sun

with a smile, men of small words and obnoxious metaphors.

Our small village hadn‟t the larg e sea vessels of the

seaside cities, we were an armada of small sails. It was a

bit lonesome but joyful. Still, they looked with watery

eyes that seldom thought of things simpler than their

epitaphic minimalism. That of the sea, the woman and the

drink.

Never too early for a drink, I got myself a pint.

Facing the window I could see even more clouds gather,

overcasting the sun with a graying gloom, their moisture

stuck to the window, peering in with spying faces.

I look ed to the barkeeper. “Maybe rain toda y. ”

“And maybe you‟ll pay your ever -growing tab today as

well, Shandon, ” he offered with a mocking scowl, “but it‟s

best not to be too hopeful.” He broke to a smile and

started setting up plates and glasses.

I laughed a bit nervously and changed the subject. My

nursery business isn‟t doing that well. I gestured around.

“L ooks like a poor day for fish.”

“More like a good day for fish an d a poor day for the

fisherman.” H e always caught me being dumb. “A nd that means

a good day for me.”



He gestured to all the drinkers and had a gleam in his

eye. “Still though, you may be right about the rain, the

clouds are gathering pretty early today, maybe it‟ll

finally fall.”

I ordered breakfast, two eggs, over-easy, a biscuit,

cantaloupe, fresh guava juice. The eggs came too runny and

I played with the yoke until it broke and flooded the whole

plate, tainting the biscuit and fruit with a strong over-

bearing flavor. There was too much salt, so I only finished

half my meal and went back to the pint. The beer was brewed

just out back. I sipped the dark lager, it had a sweet head

and a nice malty finish, though a bit hoppy for my taste.

There was almost no carbonation, which made it easier to

drink. The taste was too dark for sunny summer days, but it

seemed fitting with tod ay‟s increasing gloom.

My breakfast was interrupted when I heard someone

whispering from the other end of the bar. I looked over to

see Benjamin seated by himself at the last countertop

stool.

One look at Benjamin and I could tell that he was not

well. It was the way he sat with his legs hanging off the

stool‟s feet post, swaying back and forth like a child on a

swing set. He had a large glass of liquor in front of him

on the bar, untouched. He was looking down and his fingers



were moving violently over themselves as though trying to

rub off fish scales. And his body language was wrong, he

kept adjusting his shoulders and seemed to almost tremble

from cold.

Benjamin owned one of the largest sailboats in the

village. He usually slept on it with his wife, where only

the two of them would sail at sea for days. And he would

allow any child or parent or friend aboard to sail the bay

during calm waters. He had a grandfatherly demeanor to all

the townspeople, a man quick to laugh.

So it was strange to see him here this early. And

drinking.

I walked over and took the seat next to him.

“Hey there, Benjamin.” He moved his head slowly to

look behind him. He looked right past me. The whites of his

eyes were like red glass, his face wore the contorted

expression of one who has tasted some foul rotten fruit. He

didn‟t seem to notice I was there.

I looked to the barkeeper for an explanation, who

merely shrugged and went back to cleaning pint glasses.

I spoke his name a seco nd time, louder, “Benjamin!”

He kept his head down and smiled. “Hello, Shandon,” he

said softly, without raising his head. He seemed to not be

able to hold his smile and was back to the strange wince.



“What‟s going on?” I asked .

“Oh nothing, just in for a drink.” He raised his glass

as though his reason was quite clear.

“Is there something the matter?” I asked. “ I never

took you for an early drinker.”

“Oh, well, no, it‟s nothing Shandon… nothing at all…

it‟s just, well…” he looked around, he sighed, “it‟s

nothing.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. He twitched but tried

to play it off by scratching at his neck.

“Come on, Ben, what‟s going on? You can tell me.”

Ben started tracing the pattern of the grain on the

bar. I waited for him to get it out of his system. Finally,

he exhaled and leaned closer to me. “I saw something very

strange last night. ”

It was my time to be startled. “A… what do you mean?

Like a… voice or something atop the water?”

His eyes widened. My stupid damn mouth.

“I knew it! I knew someone‟d seen it too.” He grabbed

me by the shoulders. “T ell me Shandon, what do you think it

is? Do you think it‟s the devil?”

I backed off in surprise. “What?”

“Did you see its face ?” This time he looked horrified.



I was thinking t o myself and muttered, “W ell, no, I

only heard that someone saw something, just recently, but

from a distance, but I could have sworn she was…”

Benjamin had his full glass gripped by yellow claws,

spider webs of blood fleeing the tightness of his grasp.

“No, nothing like that,” he said, “It‟s foolish, I

know, but I think what I saw last night was the devil … just

coming on up out of the water.” He looked like he just

admitted to stealing a slice of bread, a petty

embarrassment on his face.

I was somewhat hoping another had shared my vision on

the water, but what Benjamin was describing what something

else entirely. And I felt something in my stomach squeeze.

“Where was it?” I asked.

“Near the marina.” He nodded his head to the north.

I just stared.

Benjamin sighed, reticent to tell the tale. “I was

getting in, I‟d been out at sea all day and I‟d hooked a

beauty, a big old swordfish that fought for hours. It was

getting dark and I wanted to be heading in before the winds

picked up. I made it in at dusk, and by the time I‟d gutted

the fish and cleaned the boat, it was well past dark.”

He took a tiny sip of the tavern‟s home brew, belched

meekly. Benjamin was not a drinker.



“The light house came shining my way and I had a weird

funny feeling, like a cold wind at my neck.” He looked at

me for support. “You know how those winds have been lately,

the clouds were dark and about ready to let them come

falling down in buckets but they never do. They never do.

You know one day we‟re in for a heavy one.” He managed a

weak smile at the thought of rain.

“So I got this feeling and I was walki ng up the hill

towards the road. You know that steep hill just by the

lighthouse? Thought I‟d give the lightkeeper a steak from

the catch, seeing that he brought my wife some chowder last

time she was down with the flu.”

He smiled a nervous twitch and his hands were shaking

as he sipped a bit more of the drink. “And I heard this…

sound … not like anything I‟d ever heard, like a tin violin,

or a wind- up music box all gone out of tune.”

Benjamin flattened his short wiry gray hair back with

shaky hands, and he changed his excited pitch to a monotone

script, like all the life fell from the story, like it was

already over.

“And I could feel it coming when I turned around, and

I saw this big head coming out of the water, then the

skinny little body under it as it bounced on up the hill.





Benjamin was now visibly upset, but at least he kept

his voice down. A few more men had entered the tavern

during the past moments.

“Benjamin,” I said, “are y ou sure you know what you

saw out there? ”

He looked at my shirt in a strange way. “It was a full

moon and I got eyes like a gull, boy.”

“Alright, I‟m sorry, mate. Why do you think its head

was so big?”

“How in God‟s graces should I know? And that‟s not the

worst of it. ” He lowered his voice and his eyes to his

chest and whispered as though embarrassed and not wanting

anyone to hear, “ The face.”

“What of its face?” I asked.

He eyed me with trepidation. He was scared. “Shandon,

it was all carved up, actual carvings right into its face,

like an old tribal war mask with great black eyes. It was

all just… wrong .”

Benjamin wiped at his eyes.

I continued to ponder with solemnity. “ But what did it

do?”

“Do? It didn‟t do anything but dance up and down the

road like it‟d never even seen me. Guess I wasn‟t much

interest to it .” The story confessed, he pushed the glass



away and got up to leave, trying to shrug off his darkened

thoughts.

I stood there with my hands on the bar. Something

about his story pulled at me. It felt like falling. It was

sickening.

A yell came from across the dark room. “Hey ! W hat‟re

you dogs yappin‟ about?”

It was Marcus, an old sailor, and a drunk. My fearful

storyteller turned and put on a half-assed face of

serenity. “Oh nothing , Marc, just trading ghost stories,

that‟s all.”

I turned my head to see Marcus raise his eyebrow with

curiosity. A couple of the other guys lifted their heads

from their glasses too. There was a short silence.

Benjamin could see he was caught in their nets now. He

submitted. “It‟s n othing really, guys, I just think I saw

the devil last night. That‟s all.”

For a moment there was silence in the tavern, but it

was quickly cast aside with the eruption of belligerent

laughter, the cruel kind that only sailor ‟ s could carve up.

One by one they came to the bar to gather around

Benjamin and I. They interrogated him in turn, all chiming

in like a Greek chorus of morons.

“Did‟ya see a serpent, Benjamin?”



“H ope you got a gold earring for Davey Jones. ”

“Did you hear the song of the siren?”

“The devil, ha!”

“Was it a he or she ?”

More laughter.

“Did ya sell yer soul?”

I squirmed out of their condescending reach with an

apologetic smile to poor Benjamin, now surrounded by the

fools.

I turned my head to the darkness of the corner and, in

secrecy, saw the darkness take shape to a small dancing

figure rising up from the water like a spirit summoned by a

sorcerer, an antithesis of my personal vision, out along

the sand dunes, through the mist and before the moon. I

could hear a distant cry and see bright and black eyes

staring right at me.

I left the tavern to the market to see how my stock

was selling this week, convincing myself that the day had

not just grown darker in all its parts.

My plants at the market were doing just fine, so I

made my way home, where something happened … something hard

to describe, and it troubled me to some extent.



I left the market quickly and was jogging home at an

easy pace. I took the foot trail that paralleled the main

road to my house. Both lined the sea, but the road was wide

and carved from a grassy slope that rose some meters away

from the shoreline while the trail hugged the water through

the banana trees and ferns. The trail was well worn by my

own feet. I had little use for the road right now since I

had no vehicle or carriage or horse. There was no sand

along the trail until you curved around to the small lagoon

where my house was built. I call it a lagoon but it is

merely a round inlet with a dark beach, a microcosm of the

bay.

Under the trees one could look right through to the

water. The moss was thick at certain parts and comforted my

bare feet. I came to the section of trees that curved in

towards one another, bowing gracefully to make a narrow

tunnel about thirty meters long, shadowed underneath thick

branches and dark against an already-darkening sky.

I ran along until I felt a strange sensation inside

the tunnel. A shift in the wind perhaps, but I stopped to

listen. I did n‟t know what it was, but I shivered and felt

something through the thin trees on my right. I could see

past the trunks to the water, now a pearly grey. I had seen

feet, walking, the hem of a dress brushing against ankles,



and there was a sound, just for the slightest moment. And

before I could think more of it there was only water and

stones through the trees.

Then I felt a rush at my back, and heard the sharp

intake of breath, and I was off like a hunted animal. I

sprinted out of the tunnel into view of my house. I

sprinted the whole way, almost three hundred meters. I ran

from the image and the sound, focused with my own sounds of

blood pumping and hard breathing and the small waves and

breath of the tide.

I slapped the wooden planks of my nursery to sound my

finish, just as in a race. Both hands to the wood above my

head, I stretched my legs. I let the sweat drip off my face

and run down my bare chest, watching it drip all the way to

the ground. I breathed deep and slow, calming myself. The

sweat tasted of salt on my lips and I spit at the small

puddle beneath me where the wood of my nursery met the

earth. I ran my hand down the planks to the ground and

peered to the far corner of the wall. And I noticed

something, the boards were sunken deep in the ground near

the end of my side of the nursery, almost a whole foot

down. I stepped back ten meters and eyed the rooftop. The

roof was leaning to the right. Then I was sure of it, my

nursery was sinking.



Like a ship with a hole in the bow, it was heading

down into the dirt. Strange, because the dirt was very hard

there and didn‟t meet with the sand for at least twenty

meters. Yet here it fell before me, like quicksand.

I entered through the other side, the nursery had only

one wall and the other three sides were open-air with

removable palm-woven netting. The large room was moist and

warm, drops of condensation perched on the tips of the

longer leaves. I could not spot the problem from inside. I

peered under the long wooden tables. They felt soft and wet

with the slow growth of green algae. The various tables all

seemed to sit on top of the dirt, yet the building had

surely sunk a few feet. I noticed the gardenias were almost

in full bloom, ready to be taken to the market. I fetched

my shears and began trimming and clipping. I pumped the

well into the irrigation system that hung from the low

rafters, sprinkling water to the thirsty flora. Small palms

in the left corner grew well.

I busied myself in the nursery, forgetting the

downward lean of its housing. I forgot it all in the joy of

my work. The dark ivy, blue algae, the begonias, ferns and

gardenias, they all brought me to a strange calm.



Benjamin‟s story of the devil had shaken me. It was

something he had said, something that cast a small shadow

of familiarity in my mind.

And there was the sound. Unexplainable. They were

allies in discontent. I worked all day without stopping. I

was a mad scientist in a small forest laboratory. I finally

stopped with my whole body proudly wearing garments of

soil, dark and very real on my skin. It was just before

sunset, and there was little else to do but load the plants

to the market on Monday.

I left my sinking nursery and washed at the outside

shower near my kitchen window. I kept a tank filled with

water from a nearby spring, scented with different flower

pedals and herbs. I pulled the lever and the water

sprinkled onto me. I scrubbed at the soil, soaped up and

rinsed it all off. There was the sound of the water

bouncing off the koa-wood floorboards, the smell of the

sweet scented water, and the winds that played through the

trees nearby. I closed my eyes, and inside them, under the

lids and beyond the dark, sounds became shapes and I saw

myself elsewhere, water coming in from all sides, coming

down into my mouth.

It was not the sweet spring but the stinging salt of

the sea. Startled, I opened my eyes and nearly choked on a



mouthful of water. I gasped and coughed, spewing much more

water than I could have taken in. I was out of breath and

quickly felt weak, dizzy.

I left the shower, dried and trudged inside, staring

out the kitchen window towards the beach. I was losing it.

There was music and song nearby. I saw the sea at sunset

outside my window. I looked for the green flash just as the

sun sunk beneath the waters, an ancient tradition that

signaled purity of heart for the one that sees it, but I

only saw dancing figures gather to a single translucent

mass and my ears filled with a haunting cry, and it grew

louder.

I plugged my ears with my fingers and turned my back

to the water. Like a fool, thinking I could escape, I

pulled the shades at my kitchen window and leaned against

the wall with my eyes wide open, fearing to see worse if I

closed them. The sound resonated within me, passed down my

body and around me. And I began to shake like a cold soul.

So I sunk down to the floor and willed it all away, the

sound, the song, the voice and the figure. All away…

The sun had fallen and a cool breeze was coming

through the open windows as I scurried through my closet

looking for the appropriate items. I wasn‟t sure what those



were because I didn‟t know where I was going. My closet had

a few coats, and one belonged to my great grandfather. It

had rough leather on the outside and some type of light fur

lining inside. It smelt of maple and faint tobacco, old but

not unpleasant. It was also the warmest and most durable

coat I had, it had seen more winters than I had lived. So I

grabbed it and threw it over my shoulder, along with my old

leather pack. I am fond of the older things.

I wore dark trousers fit for outdoor adventures and

laced up my leather-hiking boots. I sheathed my hunting

knife and filled my canteen and packed dried fruit and

nuts, dried smoked fish, and a loaf of honey-wheat bread

inside the pack as well.

The sky was not quite dark complete as I hurried along

the seaside road that led from my place to town. I was in

need of a drink. Some light remaining near the horizon and

dark clouds patched various spots in the sky and they

maneuvered themselves like puzzle pieces, ready to hide

away the stars.

Venus was out, the silver-blue planet always out-shone

the brightest star, and it nuzzled closely to the full moon

rising from the east. A strange constellation lay in the

sky as well, rather unfamiliar. Like a sword, or an upside-



down cross. It was lovely. The night was lovely. The

crickets were wide awake, as were the frogs along the

streams, and their polyrhythmic chirping and croaking gave

meter to my solemnly deliberate pace along the road.

The Tavern at night was quite a burden to my eyes.

There was movement everywhere. I looked to the worn wooden

walls and saw candles lighting every few feet. Their flames

dancing and casting light over all the nitwits with their

dastardly cheerful faces. Someone sang a sea chantey whose

sound was like grinding a rabbit‟s skull on stone to my

ear. It was lively and loud and I laid my hand to my head

as the sounds resonated and pained within me.

I was on edge, my senses heightened. Each slurred song

and jarring laugh pierced through. It was like being half

asleep and hearing a nearby conversation amplified into

your head.

I looked around. The room was overflowing with my

town‟s people. A ship must have arrived recently, for its

seamen laid claim to the entire bar, with a few newly-found

maidens bouncing at their laps. They where swaying to and

fro, clinking glasses and slapping backs like a bunch of

jolly bastards with syrupy ales falling from their mouths.



The candles hanging from the rusted chains that came off

the ceiling swung along with the sailors in a similar

rhythmic merriment.

I tipped my imaginary hat, proclaiming with a sardonic

whisper, “Fine days to this house,” and entered.

There was a band in the corner just beginning to play.

It was a quartet made of two skinny brothers playing

classical guitar and upright bass, a beautiful dark-haired

girl playing violin and a heavy set percussionist playing a

hided tambourine. They played chunky dance music and all

sang in island harmony, sounding out long vowels that

milked everyone‟s sprits to the floor in front of the small

stage they played from.

They were playing at a steady tempo and I could almost

pick out the high voice of the violin singing through all

the noise. The bass plucked a staccato backbeat and was met

with the tempo‟d nods of the crowd. The y were good.

There was dancing and drinking. Wine was being brought

from oak barrels in the back shed where they would be drunk

without being tasted. A pity, the tavern maintained a

vineyard up the slope a few leagues inland and produced

some very nice pinots.



Aside from their lack of appreciation for good wine,

the tavern was a typical jovial summer night. But my mood

sought no such thing. I was here now for a strong drink and

perhaps hoping to see my best friend, Patariki, waiting for

me at the bar . He wasn‟t here yet.

I took one of the last remaining tables nearest the

door, opposite my favorite spot at the window facing the

water. The inside was much warmer than the cool clouded

night outside, and I ordered some of the good dark stuff

from the blonde waitress. The band was picking a new tune

that seemed familiar but when they started singing,

guitarist first, I couldn‟t quite spot it. One by one they

fell to a syncopated groove, an island-tinged number in

waltz time.

The blonde waitress brought my dark and frothing pint

down with a clunk on the hardwood table. I heard the

guitarist sing out, you don’t know why the skies cry in

such ways …

And just then my ear caught something in the wind and

I snapped my head to the door with squinted eyes, staring

out through the open doorway at a distance down the dark

road under the muted sky.

Peering from the well-lit tavern into the dark only

seemed to exaggerate the outer darkness even more. And as



my eyes adjusted, the night seemed a graying blue, and the

wet clouds fell and hung as curtains down to where the road

left the village and headed eastward. And just a few

hundred dainty skips and toe tips down the road, where I

could hardly separate the blur that was the sandy dirt and

the sky that knelt down towards it, the air seemed to move,

majestically, fluidly, swirling as though gathering.

And with it came the sound.

It rushed to me and grew to a low howl, small within

my ear. I quickly looked away and shook it out by draining

my pint in a few gulps. It tasted heavy in my throat and

stung me. My eyes watered and I knew I‟d regret treating a

sweet beer unkindly. I itched at my ear and my finger came

back wet.

I ordered another beer and sat waiting for Patariki to

arrive, my discontented and sporadic thoughts keeping me

poor company.

I was sitting as a sullen observer when a drunken man

with a woman in his hand came stumbling by, knocking into

me, half his drink spilling on my coat.

“ Gag… blackersnaf !” I exclaimed.

“Oh, excuse me mate,” he said, offhand.

I replied with my most gallant manners and sneered.

“O h no my dear sir, I must say the fault is my own.”



He stared at me with confusion on his face.

I shook my head at the belligerent ass and took off my

coat, shaking the drink away while my second beer arrived.

I stood up, frustrated. All the chaos inside this tavern,

the music and laughter and shouts of glee, everyone calmly

taking sanctuary amongst the warmth of sound and sights as

if nothing was wrong, as though nothing was coming.

But there was too much. Too many fools who did not

quite hear all that surrounded them, fools of a fortunate

disposition that could not sense the other things. Like the

air‟s movement, the swirling and collection of moisture

inside the tavern itself. They did not hear the faint and

terrifying howls creeping just behind the wind. Or the

single voice that lay countermelody to those cries.

No, for they were lost in song and drink, thoughts

floating amongst the crashing of glasses, the scraping of

boots and the shuffles of bare feet on a sandy and salted

wooden floor. All those voices, belligerent, musical and

terrible, all mixed but did not harmonize.

Not to me.

So I headed to the door. It was time enough. And just

then, Patariki came like a phantom through the mist of the

road and into the tavern. He eyed me and spread his arms

wide, gliding in like a manta ray. He was wearing his



business coat and slacks, nice shoes, like he‟d just come

from the office. His hair was black and short and

disheveled. His usually light chocolate complexion was

rather pale. His eyes, bright and red. It was clear he had

not recently shaved. He smiled but with a certain cynicism.

The air shimmied around him as I felt him try to mask some

kind of rage.

The grin was malice by the time he reached me,

clenching my arm, stopping me from leaving.

He smelled strange. His eyes were lined with dark

circles. He seemed serious but was trying to play it off

with that damned stupid smile.

He wore a mood ring. It was black.

I expected something weird.

„Riki spoke, “Hey Grace, how do you think you‟re going

to die?”

Something like that.

“I‟m not quite sure,” I said, “maybe I‟ll fall down a

hole.”

He made a face. “Seriously, I just want to get eaten

by a shark. Really man, a shark, just swim up and bite me

in half, teeth tearing into my flesh. I wanna hear that

tearing noise, you know? And I wanna feel that pain, the

real physical pain, not any emotional shit. That‟s what I



want.” He shrugged his shoulders in an obvio us fashion.

“Come one, mate, seriously. What about you?”

“I want a beer,” I said.

He looked at my other hand holding the glass. “You

already have one”.

“Oh… well”, I dismissed, “then you want a beer.” And

with that, I decided to stay.

„Riki was great, th e flotsam of my soul. Untamed and

restless, he lived at a much quicker pace than I. He seldom

let a breath pass between his lips without uttering some

vicious observance.

He eyed me up and down, his face holding a soured

look, like he was giving blood and donating it to a

vampire. His wide nose was puffing in and out, sniffing the

air.

“Nice jacket,” he said.

I looked at my coat. “Why, what‟s wrong with it?”

He shrugged. “Oh nothing, its great, its

faaaaannntastic, I haven‟t worn one of those since I was

g ay.”

“I didn‟t know you ever stopped!” I said in mock

surprise.

And with that, our courtesies were exchanged and he

asked, “So mate, what‟dya do today?”



“Played chess with my sanity” I said.

He nodded, but of course. “And who won?”

“Eh?” I spat distractedl y. I was looking outside

again, still certain the gloom was increasing. “Oh, well I

suppose I‟m losing.”

“Well, then there‟s nothing to lose if we get a bit

pitched tonight.” He smiled at me with that damned grin.

“I‟m in a right state and I could use a few pints… and a

few more.”

I just went along with it, not ready to jump into

whatever he had planned, which usually ended with blood

falling out of my skin.

The waitress had delivered „Riki‟s pint. He let it sit

on the table, untouched. His mood changed quickly. He

looked down and interlaced his fingers, his serious

gesture. It was his only tell of a change in mood, aside

from the mood ring, and it did not suit him.

“So you know Vera?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Vera! Shit Shandon, my niece, the little girl that

I‟v e been bringing over to play around in your nursery. I‟m

sure if you search your tremendously oversized brain you

might remember. Asshole.”

I flipped him a gesture of equal insult with my hand.



“Thanks ajax.” He punched me in the shoulder and went

on. “Well, anyways, since you‟re not going to inquire as to

the reason of my somewhat displaced behavior tonight…”

“I think you‟ve been rather placid, actually, and—”

“ She drowned today .” He looked me right in the eye and

took a long pull from a flask concealed inside his coat,

never taking his eyes off me. He was smiling, cruelly.

“What?” I asked in disbelief. Of course I knew Vera,

she was a real sweet thing, she used to sing to my plants,

thinking they would grow quicker. As much of sinners as

Patariki and I are, we usually are quite compassionate. I

was shocked, and actually thought of someone else but

myself for the first time today.

“Yea h, my niece, she‟s gone mate,” he said.

I tried to empathize, but I could not. There was a

wind outside. I heard it. It unhinged me, crept to me like

a nervous itch. And so my mind was there when I said,

“Gadzooks man, how about that?”

How about that? Jeez, I was not on it tonight.

I recovered. “I‟m so sorry „Riki, what the hell

happened?”

He ignored my eyes and looked at his beer. “ I was

watching her for my sis, and we were down playing around in

the tide pools, she was singing to herself and running



around, poking at all the sea anemones. ” He shook his head

slowly.

“I was sitting on the rocks, just hanging out… it took

a while, but I finally noticed it. I didn‟t hear any

singing.”

„Riki took a slow gulp from the pint and shook his

head slowly. I felt something soft tap at my back and

turned my head. There was no one there, but I noticed the

band was playing a new tune, something bright and chunky.

“I got up and ran over to the pools,” „Riki continued,

“I couldn‟t see her anywhere. I called out her name,

shouted as loud as I could. We were alone down there, no

one around.”

He wiped at his right eye with the hand holding the

pint glass. “‟Riki,” I said. He waved me off.

“It took a few minutes. I was in the water, waist

high. The tide has been coming in and the waves were

crashing onto the rocks. The pools were overflowing with

white water. It even knocked me off balance a couple times.

“Anyways, I found her in the deep pocket in one of the

bigger rocks. There were a bunch of seagulls screaming at

me when I ran and jumped in it. She was floating facedown,

and when I turned her over her face was blue, there was

blood running down by her temple. She must have been



knocked over by one of the waves, and went unconscious when

she hit her head.”

„Riki went back to the pint. I put my hand on his

shoulder. I didn‟t know what to say.

“I‟m sorry,” I said again. “Your sister knows?”

“Yes, Shandon, she knows,” he said.

“What did she say?” I asked.

„Riki turned to me, his eyebrows crinkled, his face

aghast. “Say? She didn‟t say anything. I called the

authorities. They took her body away, to the morgue, I

guess. I wandered around all day, just walked the town, you

know? About an hour ago I finally mustered up the sand to

go and tell my sis. I was supposed to drop off Vera in time

for dinner so I wasn‟t late or nothing.

“I went into her house and she was sitting there on a

barstool in the kitchen. She looked at me and knew

something was wrong. „Where‟s the little bird?‟ she asked.

She always called Vera that, „cause she was always singing.

So I told her. She didn‟t say anything to me. She just sat

there for a moment. Then she stood up and went to the junk

drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a pair of scissors. I

thought she was going to fucking kill me, and I was ready

for it. I couldn‟t move, mate, I swear.”

I nodded my head.



“But it was worse,” he said, ”she grabbed at her hair,

pulled a thick bunch of it from her head, and cut it off at

the scalp. She dropped it to the white tile floor. It

looked weird, scattered there, her hair is even darker than

mine. And she just kept on cutting until she was almost

bald. She looked at me the whole time. We didn‟t even say

anything to each other. And I didn‟t try to stop her. I

just left, like a bloody coward.”

“Shit, mate,” I said, “why did she do that to

herself?”

„Riki shrugged, his eyes back to the pint. “So people

wouldn‟t ask her everyday how she‟s d oing, and so that

every time she looked in the mirror, she would remember

Vera. It will take a good two years for her hair to grow

back. Our mum always loved her long hair.”

„Riki downed the rest of the pint in a few gulps. I

followed suite, a quiet cheers to „Riki‟s loss.

“So you just came from her place?” I asked.

He put the glass down with a hard clank and nodded.

“Came straight here, figured I‟d find you working over a

pint.”

He kept looking at me and again, took out the flask

from inside his coat. He took a sip and smacked his lips in

a mock-refreshing glee.



“‟Riki, jeez, mate, I‟m really sorry. She was a sweet

thing.” I looked around at all the people in the bar, the

strange movement under the light of the swaying

chandeliers. “You sure this is the best place for you to be

right now?”

He tossed my question away with a hand and stood up,

shifting his flask to fit deeper into his pocket. “It‟s

alright. I‟m off to the bar, get a few more drinks and

maybe some women. These sailors have been out to sea so

long they‟re probably wondering why half the men in here

are wearing dresses and don‟t have any beards.”

This didn‟t seem like „Riki, to act so casually. He

was almost skipping aw ay when I stopped him. “‟ Riki, first,

bad line, man… just, really lame. Second, take it easy

tonight, we should be mourning Vera, not causing trouble.

I‟ve got to get my hands muddy tomorrow, loading some

plants, and would rather do it without holes in my

knuckles.”

I had no intention of loading plants tomorrow.

He pointed at me with one long finger and said, “Then

you picked a bad night to drink with me, poor friend.”

He grinned and proceeded onwards towards known and

hopeful liquid destruction.



I tried to think about Vera, a little singing child, I

could see dark skin and a wide nose. But for the life of me

I couldn‟t remember much else about her, other than the

songs she used to sing that remained in the nursery like

the sonic imprint of some lost ghost.

I could see the anxious skittle in Patariki‟s walk as

he made it to the bar. He aimed straight for a lovely thin

creature standing in an insecure fashion near the end of

the bar. Her wavy hair hung well past her shoulders and she

wore a summer dress made of a thin material that hung close

to her figure. Patariki looked towards me, made eye contact

and put on his war face.

Within moments they were laughing at something he had

said, and she touched his chest as she chuckled right

along. He had ordered a beer but then slid it away after a

moment, a strange action for him. And stranger still that

he was behaving like this, to attempt to mask his sorrow by

being so loud and stupidly happy.

Poor Vera. „Riki would try to be tough, though. I knew

he would prete nd the pain didn‟t affect him. But how could

it not? He would blame himself, never forgive himself, and

was he wrong in that?



I rubbed at my eyes and knocked over my pint glass. I

caught it before it could roll off the table. I was getting

a bit sloppy.

With colorful lights blinking out of my vision, I

surveyed the tavern. Fog had come in through the open

doorway, and I noticed the moisture clawing at the windows

behind the bar. I looked around the room to distract myself

but things seemed to slow down. The people in the tavern

seemed to waver, and it took some slightly drunken

concentration to understand what I was seeing. The movement

I had seen earlier outside had made its way in. Swirling,

hydrated tension.

And then everything seemed to stop. Something was

happening.

I could feel that the air inside the tavern had

changed. I could feel my skin moisten. The air grew thick

as though coiling, like a vaporous snake poised to strike.

And though everyone seemed to lie still, the music still

came. It came from the four instruments in the corner,

directly to me in the chair, alone in the slithering cloud

of vapor.

The sound of the band had a muted effect, like a

sponge covering the strings of the instruments. And each



individual pluck sounded off like an arrow through the

trees of a thick forest.

And the sounds came for me. I followed with my head as

they hit me in the chest and fell to the floor with a plop.

One from the violinist as her delicate hands plucked.

Plop.

And one from the long-fingered brother on the standup

bass.

Plop.

One from the guitar and a slap on the skin of the

tambourine.

Plop. Plop.

The voices of the crowd too all fell to the floor with

a hollowed knock on the once-resonant and now dead wood. I

sat in the chair while this happened, my mouth agape. I

watched the sounds rise to take form. They stood tall and

dark, shrouds that broke apart from every corner of the

tavern. There was a culmination, a crescendo of visions and

illusions, nightmares with eyelids wide. All around me were

the sounds of breaths sucking in sharply with fear.

I was tense, and struck with a strange familiarity. A

single voice entered my head, seductive, beckoning me to

the ceiling above, where hovered a dark cloud, fecund with



water, rolling with the hidden limbs of some horrible

thing.

And the clouds spread apart, and fell upon me.

The rain had finally come, and it fell with a

forgotten fury right before my eyes on the very tavern

floor.

It poured down from the wooden ceiling with aggression

and menace. I felt the water cold on my skin. It brought my

hair down over my eyes, touching my lips. I shook it and

let the water spread like little drops of poison to the

patrons around me. The sound of heavy rain was parted with

garbled words from an unseen source. And someone was near

me, the waitress. She came close to me but whispered

distantly. “Shandon?”

I looked up at her through the rain only to see her

face was blurred somehow. Almost faint, like her face was

as far away as the voice. It was not clear to me.

And for a moment it was she .

I panicked and slid my chair back too quickly. One of

the legs hit a crack in the wood floor and I fell over,

landing on my back, drenching my entire body in the puddle

that had formed below me. I stood up immediately and the

waitress was gone. I felt the stares of the whole tavern. I



stuck my tongue out in defiance at everyone looking at me

with lovely sanity in their eyes and something quite

different within mine. My lips tasted of salt while the

water continued to fall.

Patariki came back to me with, no kidding, six pints

in his arms and a huge smile on his face. Then he looked at

mine and frowned, spitting through the rain. “Shit Grace,

your face is lo oking damn pale for this time of year.”

He dropped the beers on the table and I grabbed two,

drinking them immediately, preferring a quick death. I

wiped my mouth and then wiped the water from my face.

Patariki was encouraged by my ravage thirst and

started rambling as though everything was normal, as though

God always alters the laws of nature within the tavern on

Saturday nights…

“Well I gotta tell ya Shandon, I feel better already.

A couple hours in a ducky establishment such as this and

I‟m already moving onward. My sister should be here with

me, though. Lil… Lanel… shit , I‟m drunk. I‟m forgetting her

name. What‟s my damned sister‟s name?” He laughed.

I looked at the rain falling over us and said,

“Delilah.”

“Funny. Well, with little Vera, anyways, sh e was

Bianca and Venus and everything in between, you know ?”



I shook my head, no . The empty pint glasses were

filling with water, a shallow gold color as it mixed with

the remnants of the brew. The rain fell hard and the winds

inside picked up. There was a noise…

“A true princess of heaven‟s skies , the little bird.

Well, you know what she looked like. Eyes like the sky,

dark skin. Always playing around in the water like a sea

nymph. I used to toss her into the waves when she was too

scared to jump in herself. She loved it.” He shook his

head. “The little bird,” he said again.

I sort-of nodded in absent agreement. The band had

begun a quick instrumental tune with a ferocious bass slur

every four measures. The tall brother slapped the side of

his upright on the two and four like it was a lone night

with a wild woman. The beautiful violinist plucked her

instrument sideways like a guitar with a polyrhythmic beat,

a deep tribal funk tapped out by the percussionist.

The sailors had left the bar to wiggle like fools on

the dance floor, gesturing with hands to the ceiling like

forsaken Nephilim stranded on the decks of a sinking ship

within a horrid tempest. There was a low howl outside the

window spoken from the disapproving wind. I could see

Benjamin‟s carved -faced devil staring at me with huge dead

black eyes, a long cruel nailed-finger pointing at me.



Terror sped my heart and I shivered through the cold and

vicious rains.

And Pa tariki just kept on talking. “Yeah, well I‟m

sure you saw that sheila over there by the bar. She loved

me, that was obvious. I offered her a drink but apparently

it‟s against her better judgment or religion or something.

So I slid my own beer away in a casual and smoothly

appropriate gesture.” He winked, actually winked at me, and

rais ed his glass and went on. “She told me she didn‟t mind

if I drank, but I told her a shark can‟t mate with a bear,

ya know?”

I nodded again, wiping the water from my eyes.

“Yeah, I‟ve got her, but I thought we should get a few

down before she takes me away .”

I looked out the doorway and planted my feet to the

floor, ready to rise. This was too much.

“Let‟s cheers to new women and forget the others,

right mate?” He was getting sloppy. So was I.

I eyed him closely and he grinned again.

Then I saw it.

I had to yell quite loud to be heard through the rain,

now falling at an angle from the twisting winds. “You‟re

not wet!” I shouted.



“Huh?” H e stiffened, he held his glass still while I

kept looking to the prophetic rain inside my mind.

“Oye, Shandon, you with me?” he asked, almost

inaudibly. “Why‟d you yell so loud, everyone‟s looking?”

What was this? The rain came down but wasn‟t there,

the woman‟s blurred face, the visage of the devil dancing

in my head, staring at me, the howling in the wind, it all

grew within me.

Then I just caught Patariki slightly muttering

something odd, “…you don‟t know why the skies cry in such

ways.” He bled it from his mouth with a strange tilt from

his head and a sip of his drink.

“What?” I asked.

“What…” he said, perplexed.

“What did you say?” I demanded.

“Shandon, I didn‟t… what the hell is wrong with you,

man?”

I had trouble saying it. “Please, please don‟t ask me

to bring it up. I‟ve yet to discuss it with myself first,

I… I think I might destroy something, the world maybe.”

Steam should have risen from my head. I interlocked my

fingers tightly. This was all wrong. This whole place

seemed like a new drawing of an old place, the paint still

wet on the canvas.



“Shandon…” he said again. He put his pint down. The

water still gained in its heavy downpour, even stinging my

eyes as I squint ed through it. It grew cold as „Riki took a

breath and looked at me. “Alright mate. Just so you know,

before I came in tonight I saw your backpack in the bushes

out by the door.”

“Yeah, so?” I felt like I got caught stealing candy.

“So… w here you trampin‟ off to, mate?”

“East,” I said.

“ And w hat‟s east?”

“I don‟t know, the edge of the world, maybe.”

“Sheesh man, what is wrong with you? I‟m supposed to

be the one messed up tonight. You‟ve been at the d rink too

long.”

Patariki had asked what was wrong with me, and I

wanted him to understand. I opened my mouth to speak and

stopped.

Then I tried again. I could not face his eyes as I

spoke. My response was metered, I spoke slowly and

rhythmically, as sanely as possible, even as the howling

just outside the thin walls of the tavern struck to my



marrow, I knew what I was about to say would cause my

friend great discomfort.

I took a breath and listened to the sickeningly sweet

sound of the falling rain. It came out as a slow and

desperate whisper.

“There is a growing madness in my mind, I feel I… see

her all the time. But the details of her face are blurred,

as though under a swift flowing river, or like a dream,

someone I once knew but fell from my memory. She haunts me

in these things I see.”

He looked at me for a still moment before he

stammered, “You mean…”

“I don‟t know.”

“Yea h but, you don‟t really think…”

I met his eyes and hissed the words with less volume

and more anger through gritted teeth and dripping lips, “I.

Don‟t. Know.”

I trembled with a growing aggravation.

Frackshitnag , I couldn‟t e ven remember her name, what

was wrong with me?

He backed away a few feet and eyed me over. The music

was still quite present, as were those dancing with joy on

the floor nearby. Many looked at me as I yelled all my



thoughts to Patariki. Water was overflowing from the faint

and diluted amber pint nearby.

And then I stood and started laughing at how insane I

must look, through the water, I must have been shouting at

the top of my lungs. „Riki came close and grabbed me slowly

by the jacket. “Shandon… what… but she‟s…”

He stuttered like an idiot and tried to hold me and I

fought it. The melted face of the waitress eyed me with

pity and called for the barkeep‟s assistance. Even a couple

of the sailors came to rescue and settle the mad man in the

tavern.

I fought them all in the middle of the storm. They

yelled all at once. One of the sailors punched me as if to

wake me, then he said, “Everything will be alright, mate.”

This was funny.

I howled with laughter. Just too fucking funny.

Then I hooked my right leg behind his left knee and

put my left hand in the middle of his chest. I pulled my

leg back while pushing him away with my hand. He flew back

in to the table behind him, knocking two people over with

it.

The music stopped. I look ed around. The rain hadn‟t

stopped, though, no. It rose as though it obeyed the



crescendo of my spirits. It became a torrential and livid

hurricane.

No one else seemed to notice.

I grabbed Patariki by the collar of his coat. Winds

screamed inside the place, howling like wolves in the fog

that now surrounded the tavern, yearning to get in. The

hurricane swept the water in different patterns. It fell up

from the floors to the ceiling, defiant to gravity.

When the music stopped, the dancing ended, and all

that could be heard was my voice and the storm. I squeezed

the cloth of „Riki‟s coat, the blood under my skin fled

from my paled knuckles, and water was dripping through the

thin gaps between my fingers, rung from the cloth of his

coat. I bowed my head and shut my eyes hard until I saw

sparkling lights of color drifting under my eyelids and

figures seemed to dance around like the devil that rose

from the sea with the carvings in his face.

All howling.

And with teeth clamped down, with ears full of the

screaming cries of unknown souls, with my eyes to all the

motionless and gawking demons in the tavern, I pulled

Patariki in close so that only he would know my secrets,

yet I spoke to all of them.



“My dears sirs… my dear sirs, I shall be a ghost to

you all.”

There were staring faces from the patrons of the

tavern, paved with sympathy and fear. The members of the

band just stood facing me, strangely, like they were

waiting for something.

Ha.

Poor bastard Patariki stared wide-eyed in disbelief.

He could not understand. This was not the tragic loss of a

young girl, this was something else entirely. I frowned

with a pained look and let him go.

I backed up and tripped on that same damned crack with

my boots and fell over on my ass. Some in the tavern

laughed. Most, including Patariki, did not. I quickly got

back up, turned and fled through the doorway kept guard

with those ominous guardian vines.

Outside, the rain was not rain at all, only a thick

fog and it felt good. I grabbed my pack from the bushes

where I stashed it just before I entered tonight. I walked

down the eastward road, carrying all I needed. I looked at

my jacket, my thick pants and boots, they were dry enough.

I came by a small playground and heard the metal

chains of the swing whining about. The swing-set was in the

middle of a large sandbox where the kids would play. As I



passed it I saw a child, a small girl, singing softly to

herself. I froze for a moment, thinking it was Vera,

„Riki‟s little bird. But she was lost now, reclaimed by the

sea. This girl was stationed on the swing, slowly swaying

back and forth while keeping the tips of her small feet on

the ground.

Why she was there, I could not begin to guess, or of

much of anything that night.

She glowed with a sweet innocence, or of something

else entirely.

I turned my ear to hear her song, a faint and strange

melody.

Where have you gone my sweet?

It was an old nursery tune, and I knew it well enough,

yet in this setting it chilled me as frost to my skin.

I looked eastward down the dark road, tattered clouds

moving at will but with no wind to be felt. I grinded my

teeth as I walked onward, to anywhere. But mostly, just, to

elsewhere.



Interlude

I say goodbye to no one,

Steal your secrets and leave them on the floor,

I woke up with my clothes on,

A suicide note stabbed to the door.

And it’s twilight, you know,

And I’ve one ticket on a train to the sea,

And with torn away memories

Perhaps I’ll drown myself and leave.

But this train, it won’t stop

Through the sea or beyond the door,

And I’ve got a wicked grin that’s full of sin

S ay’s I won’t see your face no more.

So blow me a kiss as I fade with the mist,

I pronounce to the land as I fall.



My dear sirs, my dear sirs,

I shall be a ghost to you all.

‘Ca use I fou nd a train to the sea…

Ch. 1 Train to the Sea

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