Category: Vol. 1 Issue 2 | Leave a Comment
Wire Sculptor, Artist, Graphic Designer. Reynaldo Molina started working with wire 5 years ago. He enjoys working with such a versatile and malleable medium. From conception to reality, he has created scores of figures, from mermaids, to monsters, to Hollywood characters and stars. For more incredible wire art, check out his website, reynaldomolinawire.com.
Category: Vol. 1 Issue 2 | Leave a Comment
Athanox was a shape shifter.
Well, it might feel like fancy stuff around here, but let me assure you that it is a very mundane thing on HIS planet.
In fact, you could not be more ordinary: EVERYONE there was a shape shifter.
Those beings are hatched without a shape and go through their existence evolving into different bodies or creations.
It was very simple to do, provided you kept two important rules in mind:
1 - The new shape is acquired by speaking the name of the form you want to achieve or by formulating a description for it, when no name is available.
AND
2 - There is no going back to a shape that has been already used.
Such concept of species’ evolution would of course have been a puzzle for our Darwin, but all in all it rather did well for the shape shifters.
Who, incidentally, have a very sophisticated name of their own, deriving from that of their home planet. We just cannot have it printed here because our alphabets are just not up to the sounds involved.
And really, it does not matter.
Athanox, obviously, is in fact called something much more complex but I have tried to make an estimation of what his name would sound like and that is the best I managed to come up with.
But, again, all this does not really matter.
It was depressed.
Of course, it is easy for us to think that a sentient being that must be referred to as a “IT” has all the reasons in the world to feel depressed, but all in all that is just a misconception caused by our in-build programme for evolution of our own specie. Athanox was bored to tears. And even if it had no eyes to cry, it thought life was treating it cruelly.
Look, I’m having problems calling the poor creature a “IT”: Let’s refer to it as a “HIM” instead. No gender inequity or latent chauvinism intended, rather an easy way out of a sticky situation.
So HE had an issue with life.
His companions were blaming it on adolescence. He had not yet evolved from his natural blank state to a more defining adult shape. The problem being that he could not make up his mind as to which form he should develop into. All the shapes available locally seemed already overused and standard: he did not want to grow into the shape of his elders; he had a craving for something new, something radical, something ORIGINAL.
Now, here on earth, he might have dyed his hair purple and adopt a few piercing and tattoos, but there was no such alternative on his planet. And besides that, tattooing or piercing a non existent body is a rather difficult business. So he was lingering in his prepubescent form, seeking a new himself in the limbs of cosmos beyond his home, ignoring the nifty remarks of his companions, when he found US.
His tracking device had intercepted the signals of a military observation satellite, and EARTH started to fill his field of perception. A new world of shapes and colours opened to him from that moment on and he started dreaming about coming over.
That was not as difficult as you might think. His lack of form did allow him to make use of molecular travel (yes, if you must know, a bit like in Star Trek, la!). So he signalled goodbye to his friends—I’m not really sure they were friends actually. These creatures are rather individualistic; let’s call them “relatives”—and disappeared.
Shortly before his arrival on our planet, he had to select a body to evolve into. Now that created some type of problem because he had no idea what earthly creatures were called nor what were their individual functions. In fact, he would have had problems differentiating between a living creature and an object or an inanimate being.
He had observed earth at length though, and spotted a few creatures that might offer a suitable body model for his new avatar. So when faced with the task of stating in what form he should progress, his decision was to look like “one of those small, living creatures, hanging out in groups and ruling the earth.”
I think he meant US, actually.
What he did end up as, however, was an ant.
That surprised him quite a bit, since he had more legs than he had hoped. But the shape was definitely classy and he had antennas! He was in fact using them to orient himself in the gallery where he had been dropped, when another ant came up to him and started yelling at him. He had not yet recovered from the shock when the other creature started to whip him too. It seemed to tell him to get to work and kept pushing him further into the gallery. A bit further they joined a column of workers that soldiers were keeping at their task with the use of tools that, in our sphere, would have been banned by the Geneva Convention. They did not chain him, but he did feel like a slave or a prisoner. He, who had led so far a purely intellectual and rather idle life, was put to work in the most violent manner and all day he toiled and toiled, carrying this and that this way or the other, building galleries and transporting more stuff along. He did collect a few blows on the way and ended up the day in such a state of despondency that his fellow workers—who had had their own share of misery—started to caress him with their antennas.
He was horrified.
You see, on his planet, the political regime—if one can refer to their social organisation as such—was rather liberal, what would, in our world, be passed as the equivalent of a mild form of socialism with a hefty dose of individualism.
Finding himself under a totalitarist administration was a far greater shock than all the blows he had received. He needed to escape. This became his immediate—and most frantic—goal as the days started to reproduce the same nightmare, over and over.
One day however, the workers were led out to bring back goodies to the store. Athanox was so desperate that he focused on the first thing he saw and articulated that he wanted to become “this tall slender green living thing”.
And so became a shoot of grass.
Not even a full clump. No: just one individual of a small five leaf bunch. He was soon to learn that “individual” was to be the operating word there.
You’d think: a tuft of grass, sharing the same root would automatically share the same identity between its components. But no. No single leaf was the same as the other. They all had seemingly different dreams and ambitions: One wanted to grow taller than the forest, the other wanted to make the best whistle in the world, one wanted to dance gracefully and mindlessly in the wind and another yet wanted to be greener than its colleagues.
Athanox only wanted to be left in peace.
He did soon discover however, that they all shared a common objective: survival. Apparently, they were under permanent attack.
Either that or his colleagues were suffering from acute paranoia.
They did disagree however on the best way to defend themselves. That they had to fear different predators might have accounted for the variety of defensive means devised by the vegetal beings, but their various ambitions also leaked into the debate. Because they had vicious debates about the issue. Or ANY issue.
Being all separate individuals, each and every one of them had socially the same weight and same authority (or lack thereof) upon its fellow “clumpers”. So each discussion was turning into a co-owners committee meeting from hell.
That one who wanted to grow the tallest was naturally concerned about land mowers and wanted barricades to be placed in order to choke said mechanism. That solution was horrifying to the others as it made use of dead leaves and dried fellow grass. The aspirant giant was not so much concerned on grounds of ethics. For that chap, that solution was the most efficient and had the added value to protect their roots as well as providing nourishment to the whole plant.
Now that last argument might have tilted in its favour the comrade who was cultivating its greener self, but this fellow was, in fact, more concerned with slugs and snails attack and for its part supported the production of massive poisonous lymph in order to defeat the enemy.
The whistle material chap would have supported that solution—not being keen on being used for snacks by various monopods—but it did conflict with the whole point of growing at all (in its humble opinion).
Ditto for the solution offered by the dancing partner, who proposed to make themselves as sharp as razor blades in order to deter cows and rabbits from nibbling on them.
Our little shape shifter was appalled to find out that what he had first contemplated as offering the best vegetative life could be both dangerous and—given the incessant debates on the part of his mates—extremely frustrating and infuriating.
He was constantly being dragged into cell disputes and bullied by his comrades into voicing opinions that were immediately seized upon, denigrated, contested and thereafter thoroughly ignored.
He had to admit to himself that living in a community was not for him and started to think about evolving again.
Until then he had only seen other bunches of grass and a few insects, none of which appealed to him as a suitable alternative to his present predicament.
But then one day, a strange creature appeared.
His first reaction on seeing it was “Fancy ! What is Asghartil doing here ?” for he had mistaken it for a prepubescent mate from his home planet.
However, shrills of horror from his fellow grass stalks informed him that THIS was one of the fierce enemies that had been mentioned over and over during the committee sessions.
While Mr. Green was screaming “Poison! Let’s produce poison!” and the others debated whether that was the best, most acceptable way, Athanox reviewed the creature and decided to become another one of its kind.
Now that went rather fine and he soon found himself snacking on his ex-comrades, who—it must be recorded—went down still debating.
He had become a snail.
And a happy one too. It did take him some time to get used to the strange contraption on his back, but once he settled in, he found it a rather cosy accommodation.
What was not so pleasant was the attention he suddenly was getting from the other snail.
Remember? The one that had caused all that frantic shrieking in the first place?
That other snail had finally reached him and was now proceeding to caress him with its—EYES? Eeeewww! That slimy touch was creepy (our fellow was a tad fastidious about these things) and although he tried to back away, the other one seemed quite bent on engaging him for its own wicked purposes (to him, anything THAT slimy was bound to be wicked, a preconception that might have originated from his passage as a vegetal).
After a few clumsy attempts at stating that he was not that sort of creature at all, and at asking what was the other one taking him for, he had to resort to retreat into his chambers. Firmly convinced that he was only trying to play hard-to-get, the admirer gallantly led siege to his mansion.
A few days passed.
Athanox was getting hungry when he was saved by the providential intervention of a bird, who seized his paramour and flew away with its prey.
Our hero hesitated for some time but, motivated by hunger, tried a sortie, one eye at a time. Nothing seemed to be moving around him, so he ventured out completely and marched—well, slithered—upon the nearest green patch.
He was just finishing a light lunch of tender grass shoots when he felt himself seized and airborne: he had been captured by a bird! He was watching his captor in fascination when he realised that this one had let him fall, with the obvious scope to break his shell on a rock. After a moment of panic, he managed to concentrate briefly and, just as he was about to collide with the hard stones underneath, became a bird himself.
He contained his fall just so—and a few centimetres from the ground too—but his subsequent landing was NOT a dignified one.
It’s all good and grand to sprout wings on demand but they do not come with a user manual and our little alien found himself in the position of a hatchling trying to fly for the first time. Which was ludicrous, given he was an adult size specimen.
Nearby sparrows started to poke fun at him and he soon found himself in the midst of birds off all kind, dropping by to watch him as he, again and again, failed to fly off but instead bashed his frame on the ground.
In the end, a compassionate hen did give him a few lessons and so he managed to, at least, not hurt himself by falling repetitively.
But it took him almost a week to finally ascend above the field where he had been hiding. A week during which he had to feed himself on bugs—he refused to eat worms after the first one, they were not slimy but the feeling of having your food wiggling down your throat was too much for him to bear—and to hide from foxes, cats and dogs. So it was a relief for him to finally start to fly in earnest.
He did find it an exhilarating sensation and began to swoop between trees at vertiginous speed and height, pouncing on unsuspecting butterflies and bees for snacks and creating havoc in various bird formations, thus exacting revenge for all the sarcasms he had to endure.
He felt supremely happy, so—obviously—it could not last.
He changed shape once going from a pigeon’s to that of a falcon and with the power afforded by his new wings starting to ascend to higher planes. The first cumulus he flew through did surprise him—it was wet! —but he soon got addicted to cloud bursting. And it was during one of these games that he was assaulted by a new predator.
It was huge and scaly, noisy and breathing fire.
Mmm, no: not exactly breathing fire, come to think of it. More like: farting fire.
And it threatened to swallow Athanox in one of its lateral mouths in a single big sucking action. Incapable of resisting the attraction, our little friend tried to once more resort to his favourite defence technique: i.e. becoming a sibling of his aggressor.
However, I am sorry to inform you that this was not successful.
Oh, his change happened, and it was as satisfactory as a change should be.
However, because of the synergy caused by the suction of the mouth of the monster, he was much too close to it when transforming. Becoming another identical plane—because that is what the other creature was—within meters of the other one’s left motor was disastrous.
They crashed in mid air.
Athanox’s nose broke, the other plane lost a wing and its tail and exploded little time afterwards. Our hero caught fire and started spiralling down. He tried to flap his wings, using the new science he had got from his life as a bird, but discovered to his utter horror that his new set of feathers was rigid and unmovable. The ground was getting closer and the heat unbearable. Athanox once again panicked and tried to think of another form he could change into.
In his agony, he ran through his mind all the creatures he had seen or been and even found himself thinking with some melancholy about his time as an ant.
It is at such a time that, forced by urgency to make a choice, he formulated the following injunction: He wanted ever so much to be “this little living creature made of little blackish beads!” Suffocated by the heat of the fire raging on board the cabin, he even added: “and let it be in a cool environment!”
That was the end of him.
Oh he did not crash, but you see, in his panic, he had forgotten about rule number two: once you have been through a shape, there is no turning back.
He could not become an ant anymore. So he became what fitted best to his hastily thought up definition: sturgeon eggs.
And it is as caviar that he ended his existence, on earth and everywhere else, on the canapés served during a 14th July buffet at the French embassy.
“Splendeur et Décadence.”
Category: Vol. 1 Issue 2 | Leave a Comment
Sondra almost missed the sign while leaving the Rite Aid, the twins in either hand. She was tracking Beth, their older sister, who was already charging ahead to the Beanie Babies display behind the Toys R Us window. Luckily Beth’s eight years were not enough to permit too much physical distance between herself and her mother for more than a few minutes tops. Sondra had learned to rely on her older daughter’s natural insecurity while juggling all three kids during Stuart’s infamous X-treme Fishing Tuesdays. She steered Sean and Mariel towards the old man in the black whaler knowing Beth would follow.
The captain was not of the Kangaroo or Hook variety who might win over a child simply through posturing and costume. But he looked grizzled enough to be the real deal if appearances were any indication. Dressed as if expecting a typhoon to descend that afternoon on the Jersey shore, Andrew J. Doohan could have come from Central Casting had there been a cattle call for The Wreck of the Hesperus. He appeared in bad need of a shave, a haircut, and maybe some skin grafts. The wispy hair tumbling down the seaman’s forehead clearly had not seen a comb that morning, and his white stubble fell maybe three days’ short of a respectable beard.
There was something ridiculous about discovering Ahab’s clone in the middle of a South Jersey shopping mall, but for now the old guy was the proverbial port in a storm.
Approaching the man seated behind the fold-up desk while restraining her natural tendency for making a wise-ass introduction, Sondra introduced herself. “Captain Doohan, you’ve just thrown one tired woman a badly needed life preserver.” Still holding the twins’ hands, she eased each forward. “I’m Sondra Marchette. Mariel and Sean here are five, and that’s Beth, a world-weary eight, closing up the rear.”
The old salt pushed himself from behind the desk and approached them. He was much taller than Sondra had expected, an imposing six feet at least, and for one terrible moment she felt certain all three children might bolt and run off screaming. The seaman’s smile assuaged that fear. He knelt down, studying the face of each child while addressing the parent.
“Cap’n Andy’s th’ name, M’am, and it’s always a pleasure t’ meet th’ young ‘uns. Sean, Mariel, and Beth, eh? Those are fine names. Fine names, each n’ all. And how are y’, then?” Having completed the niceties with the children, he extended his hand to their mother. The old man’s long fingers almost swallowed hers.
“I’d a bit more vigorous grip in younger days when captainin’ freighters carryin’ bulk from the textile mills in Portland out of th’ deepwater of Casco Bay to points North,” he told Sondra. Listing his credentials with parents seemed part of his storytelling package, likely the idea of whatever Pier 2 yuppie employer who had hired him. “Recently I’d done simple lobsterin’, only a bit less back breakin’ f’r an ancient seaman, settin’ my traps out of Scarborough thinkin’ I hadn’t much to say to whatever wasn’t a shellfish. But watchin’ kids like these changes a mind quick. There’s no worse way of seein’ out a man’s remainin’ twilights th’n seein’ them out alone.”
Sondra nodded, surprised at the sailor’s openness. She couldn’t place the mariner’s accent. It seemed an odd chowder combining the shores of New England with some exaggerated inflections lifted from vintage Popeye, likely useful for holding kids’ attention. Chances were the man had never sailed far beyond the coast of Long Beach Island a chartered group of Jersey accountants turned weekend fishermen his only cargo. It didn’t matter. Old Captain Andy won the twins over before he had completed his introductions. A giggling Sean and Mariel took the man’s hand while Beth remained behind her mother and said nothing.
“Will y’ be wantin’ a story from th’ Cap’n, then, Missis?” he asked, standing upright again. He towered over Sondra as if he might complete the moment with a salty joke about bowl legged sea men and the requisite Har! Har! Har!
“That we will.” She felt amused at how easily she had been charmed by the ancient sailor enough to mimic the rhythms of his speech. “Have you got one that runs, say, fifteen minutes or so?”
. . . without the commercials? she almost added, noting the man’s tip jar. These mall promoters could be slick with kids when there were dollars to be made. Andrew J. Doohan, after all, was Pier 2’s summertime answer to Santa.
The man rubbed the whiskers on his chin and grinned.
“Oh, I think I might be able t’ whip up a tale or two of sea serpents and ghost ships, with your kind permission, Missis. That is, if y’ don’t b’lieve it’ll toss too much of a scare into th’ little ‘uns.”
I y’am what I y’am and that’s all what I y’am . . .
All right, so maybe the old coot was laying it on a bit thick for a mall employee. The fact was, Sondra had fallen into the spirit of this thing and felt tempted to remain for one of the old guy’s yarns.
[ . . . then again Stuart had mentioned his partiality to a silk pair of pink crotchless panties she had spotted last week at Frederick’s of Hollywood, and if the bluefish were running off Barnegat Bay and her husband was feeling his oats tonight after the kids were tucked in, well then . . . ]
“You’re not a real sea captain!” Beth interrupted.
The crotchless panties would have to wait. Sondra had become used to keeping her apologies for Beth at the ready. But the captain was one step ahead of her.
“Seein’ isn’t quite th’ same as believin’, is it, missy? Well, Beth, I’ve a tale for y’ which may set a doubtin’ Thomas t’ thinkin’ otherwise . . .”
He winked secretly to Sondra using the universal code shared among all adults. His repertoire might tweak the kids’ world a bit while a mother left them in his care, but there was no danger in Andrew J. Doohan’s overturning it. In the shorthand parlance of parentspeak the motion was Sondra’s cue. Shopping time had arrived and she was on the clock.
“Mind your manners with Captain Andy, you young ‘uns,” Sondra advised her brood. She kissed each, flashed a quickie smile at the seaman, then walked off in the direction of Frederick’s. The old man fell suddenly silent as the three children took their places on the colorful gum ball assortment of floor cushions before him. He waited until the young mother had made the right turn to the Southern wing of the mall, waited until confident she was out of sight before his attention returned to the children.
His smile was gone. The captain’s eyes bored in on each child, the twins first, then Beth. His stare remained fixed on her.
“I’ve a tale to tell, oh yes. But I’m not feelin’ cert’n that it’d be to your mother’s best likin’ if she was t’ know th’ one I’ve in mind, a tale concernin’ what I’ve got hid here inside this pouch.” The old man reached beneath the table, producing some sort of small pouch that looked as if it were sewn together from the scales of a fish the color of the sun. Although gone to tatters with age, the pouch glimmered like burnished gold sparkling with elegance even in the mall’s artificial light. It might have more properly belonged to royalty than to a grizzled sea captain, its contents containing riches beyond anyone’s imagining. The fish skin was wrapped around some unseen jar-shaped object which he dangled before the children. “Do y’ follow th’ drift of what the cap’n is tellin’ y’?”
The twins looked at the round pouch, then at each other. Beth’s eyes never left the old man’s.
“You’re saying we can’t tell her!” the girl shouted. She covered her mouth when the aged sailor leaned toward her as if she had revealed a terrible secret.
“That’s what I’m tellin’ y’, missy.” He turned to the twins who had practically huddled together. “That’s what I’m tellin’ each of y’. Now, are y’ ‘greeable to th’ terms of hearin’ th’ cap’n’s story, then?”
The twins silently nodded. Beth nodded too, although her consent took a moment longer. Satisfied, Captain Andy began.
“Picture in your mind’s eye th’ finest ship t’ sail th’ sea. Twelve sheets from stem to stern, she was, th’ last of th’ western commercial sailin’ vessels b’fore th’ fleets moved entirely t’ oil. With masts climbin’ to th’ sky and sails which danced like angel’s wings ‘gainst th’ four winds. A queen, she was, a young cap’n’s complete schoolin’, capable of turnin’ a man’s head ever’ time she glided into port. Th’ Mollie B. that vessel was called, christened with th’ name of my young wife. A terrible storm took that ship from me durin’ th’ summer of ‘35 jus’ as cert’n as th’ loathsome sickness took her namesake many years after.
“And one lunker of a storm she was. Thirty odd miles off th’ coast of Nova Scotia, she came. Lightnin’ an’ thunder that might’ve cracked this world in half, and a sea swelled so high no man livin’ could see th’ top on her. Hadn’t no fancy ship-to-shore pinball games on board t’ warn me, not in those days. That wind come blowin’ early one Sunday evenin’ catchin’ me with my crew of some thirty-three strong, each to a man off his guard. A howlin’ gale, she was, and didn’t take her leave past th’ middle of that night when th’ Mollie B. might’ve just as well been a naut’cal mile’s worth of match sticks. All night thirty-three good men are gon’ into th’ drink, each hollerin’ at th’ full moon for some heavenly intervention. But God, He didn’t lift nor a pinkie. Durin’ th’ full measure of th’ Mollie’s last hours, I’m cert’n of one fact. Only t’ watch us die that night is all God intended . . .”
“You shouldn’t talk about God like that!” Mariel shouted.
“Shut up!” Beth told her younger sister, then turned her attention back to Captain Andy.
Sean, usually the first to fall asleep seated anywhere for more than three minutes, remained wide awake.
“Yeah, Mariel. Shut up,” he warned his twin, mimicking his big sister.
Andrew Doohan looked over his shoulder to determine the prudence of continuing. He stared at the small fish-scaled container for a moment, caressing it as if he held a chalice brimming with precious stones. The children leaned forward like three puppets’ heads on a single string, but he covered the object entirely in his large hand and would not permit them to see more.
“Well, th’ Mollie B. went down, all right, th’ whole of her durin’ th’ fiercest hour of that tempest. Dis’ppeared into th’ salt with nor a trace into those black waters while th’ men’s lifeboats tumbl’d over th’ side and bust’d up durin’ that storm’s fury. Hearin’ th’ crewmen’s screams and feelin’ useless as a man with his hands tied behind him, I’m clingin’ to th’ rail of th’ flyin’ bridge while awaitin’ fate’s worst. Th’ quarterdeck cracks open like a gapin’ maw, and into th’ deep I tumble down, down, and down. Wrestlin’ with that whirlin’ vortex below me for passage back to th’ surface, with lungs’ ready t’ bust, I’ve a mouth so full of seawater can’t scream for help when I get there. Not that screamin’ served th’ others much purpose. I know there’s only m’self clingin’ to life in those dark waters like a lone dog drownin’, my body so froze I don’t feel I b’long to ‘t.
“But there in th’ pale wash of moonlight I see some object I can’t quite d’termine. A big chunk of th’ Mollie’s debris is driftin’ like a raft, and she’s bobbin’ on th’ waves. Paddlin’ to that chunk of wood I’m a man gone mad. I pull m’self up on that crate crazy with fear or tiredness, not knowin’ which of th’ two might take me first.
“But I keep holdin’ on to that piece of wreckage, and fin’lly durin’ th’ mid hours of th’ night th’ storm subsides and some semblance of calm returns to th’ world enough f’r me t’ find some breath.
“That’s when, b’neath th’ full moon, I see what she is I’ve been driftin’ upon, th’ floatin’ object what’s reclaimed me from th’ grip of those icy waters . . . “
Here the captain paused. He looked hard at each child.
“Y’ won’t tell, then? On your honor, promise me y’ won’t .”
“We won’t tell!” from Sean.
“We promise!” from Mariel.
And from Beth, the last to speak, “Cross my heart and hope to die!”
Captain Andy smiled.
“All right, then . . .
“ . . . a coffin, it was, a floatin’ casket I’m holdin’ on to in that icy water. She’s part of th’ Mollie’s cargo I’m haulin’ to a port in th’ midst of some ice-capped nowhere called Twillingate in Newfoundland. Whoever lay within that coffin I’ve not a clue. A ship’s cap’n learns when time comes t’ question th’ full contents of what freight he carries, and where dead bodies is concerned, that time is never.”
The twins looked confused. They probably had no idea what a casket was.
But the eight year old, Beth, she knew. The captain could tell just by looking at her that she knew. And that was enough.
“Th’ coffin was weighted too heavy t’ stay afloat takin’ on water as she was. For cert’n, either her contents or m’self were gon’ into th’ sea. But she was hammered tight, and I needed to pry her open else th’ remains inside would be escortin’ me to th’ ocean’s bottom. I had but my bare hands for removin’ her lid, and a man’s flesh is no match against thick pinewood . . .
“ . . . But a man’s mind, now there’s another matter entirely . . .”
Here the captain smiled enough to show yellowed teeth. Without releasing the fish-scaled pouch he unbuttoned his thick whaler.
“A sea man’s belt buckle saved th’ day. This metal catch might pop a dozen nails when a man’s got his wits ‘bout him, assumin’ that man’s given th’ choice b’tween thinkin’ clear else becomin’ a feast for th’ sharks.”
The three children laughed. Children always laughed at this part.
The captain paused, savoring the moment.
“‘Course, I felt considerably uneasy concernin’ that coffin’s contents, knowin’ I’d be feedin’ someone’s corpse to th’ Atlantic to save my own sorry skin. Pullin’ th’ lid open I determined to have just one look, my penance bein’ to memorize th’ face of that unfortunate soul I’d consigned to th’ deep . . .
“I had a look within . . .
“Ice! Th’ casket was filled with ice!
“Somethin ´- I could not begin to guess what - was froze solid inside that coffin!
“I clawed through those icy chunks not carin’ that I was shreddin’ my fingers in th’ act, ‘til I found what lay b’neath.
“Th’ thing was froze all right, preserved by someone intendin’ to keep her fresh . . . and to keep her secret inside that box!
“Children, within that floatin’ casket I found no corpse, ‘though I’ve spent th’ better part of sixty years often wishin’ I had . . .
“I’m thinking, ‘Now that’s some large fish I’ve uncrated’, b’cause I dug out th’ bottom part first and spotted only fins. Not ugly dark ones, no, not th’ sort belongin’ to most sea creatures. These were delicate, almost smooth, like those seen on a goldfish that might’ve grown large to accommodate th’ pinewood box containin’ her. With bleedin’ fingers I dug into th’ ice coverin’ th’ top half on her, expectin’ a fistful of scales for my effort. But this was no fish of any sort I’d encountered. This was a woman, a golden haired woman more beautiful than any creature I’d seen walk dry land.”
“A mermaid!” Mariel cried out. “You found a mermaid, Captain Andy?”
“I suppose I did, missy,” he answered.
And then from Beth, “Was she dead?”
The old man almost smiled, but did not.
There was no doubt now.
Andrew J. Doohan had the children, he had them good . . .
“I couldn’t prove her livin’ nor dead, Beth. She felt stiff and insensible. I knew only th’ poor creature’s fate had married itself to m’ own. She could not remain where she was within th’ coffin, nor could I without. And so I rocked th’ casket ‘til she tipped over, spillin’ her into th’ sea, not knowin’ whether I was returnin’ that golden woman to freedom nor to a watery grave.
“Th’ remainin’ ice quenched my burnin’ thirst, though th’ contents of that liquid had unquestionably mixed with th’ essence of th’ creature I’d so unceremoniously tossed over. But, for such thoughts a man with thirst has no time. Climbin’ inside that empty crate I experienced a sense of hope that I might just find a way out of th’ night’s misfortune. And I had only th’ magnificent sea creature to thank for my extraordinary twist of fate.
“I slept th’ sleep of th’ dead within that casket, slept with that single thought takin’ me there . . .
“I awoke b’lievin’ I was still in a dream. A distant voice called to me from a sea now becalmed and glitterin’ like a great jewel in th’ sunlight of a new mornin’ . . .
“‘Awake, sir!’ it called as if singin’ th’ words. ‘Please, sir, awake! See the life you have restored to a creature forever in your debt!’”
“The she-creature was alive! There she was, frolickin’ in th’ sea before my very eyes like a lovely apparition!
She dove under without so much as makin’ a ripple, that majestic fin at first there, then gone b’neath th’ surface, her smilin’ face reappearin’, laughing and callin’ to me again, “Sir! Oh, Sir!”
“The sun shone so golden on that woman’s hair it seemed heaven must’ve flooded with salt water . . .
“‘I am no man to purloin credit not rightfully my own, Miss!’ I called back to her. ‘Your gratitude more properly belongs elsewhere! I am Andrew J. Doohan, a poor soul an’ a coward whose only concern is his own flesh, a far cry from th’ sort you would believe me as bein’ . . .’
“Children, I can say little regardin’ th’ stubborn nature of a fish, but I’ve since learned much concernin’ th’ stubbornness of a woman, even one comes from th’ sea . . .
“‘I see no coward, Andrew, only the man who has rescued a poor creature from those who would have made her their prisoner! The deed ensures my debt to you, not the reason for the deed about which I care not a bit! Whisper the name Meera into the sea, and if it is in the sphere of my ability, your wish shall I grant! Until then, remember me with this . . .’
“She tore off a fragment of her golden fin and handed it to me.
“In th’ next moment she disappeared b‘neath th’ surface.
“My view of all things possible altered considerably durin’ th’ course of those few moments. I tucked th’ golden fin into th’ ragged garment I wore swearin’ to keep it with me always, knowin’ there was but one thing I might’ve desired of Meera . . . and as a married man with a good wife waitin’ at home, knowin’ as well how th’ askin’ for it was unthinkable.
“From nowhere a brisk North wind stirred up and carried that coffin directly to th’ shores of Halifax. T’ this day I’ve no doubt th’ she-creature Meera had some hand in that . . .
“Returned safe to my young wife Mollie, I never spoke nor a word of Meera. And together we lived happily for many long years ‘til th’ cancer took her three winters b’fore last.
“Over sixty years passed since that night, but with Mollie in th’ ground and th’ seasons changin’ without her, I b’lieved maybe th’ time had come to return to th’ sea and state my wish to Meera . . .
“Not far from this very site on a cold winter’s night I stood upon a long jetty and whispered th’ name that sounds so like th’ wind herself, whispered it right into th’ sea just as th’ she-creature told me . . .
“‘Mee-ra . . . Mee-ra . . .’
“Say th’ name with me, children, will y’?”
The three children whispered the name along with the captain.
“Mee-ra! Mee-ra! Mee-ra!” they chanted.
And then they suddenly stopped.
Their eyes fell on the fish scale pouch in the captain’s palm.
They heard a splunk! Something inside the pouch moved!
Captain Andy held the pouch-covered container, its contents still concealed, before them.
“I made this covering from th’ fin she offered me. I’ve kept it with me f’r all these years, right here close t’ my heart . . .”
Impossibly, the golden fish skin shimmered in the light with more brilliance than before, seeming to catch fire before the children’s eyes. The twins’ mouths hung open.
“But what’s inside?” asked Beth.
“Tell us! Tell us!” the twins begged, watching as the pouch splunked yet again.
Captain Andrew J. Doohan could only smile at the question.
“What’s beneath th’ pouch, children, is th’ wish Meera granted me . . .
“. . . I called her name for six nights runnin’. Receivin’ no reply, I felt certain th’ she-creature had either died or had forgotten th’ promise she made.
“But on th’ seventh night th’ seawater b’fore me suddenly broke and there she was, as young and beautiful as th’ day I’d seen her last . . .
‘I’ve come, Andrew, just as promised . . .’
“Seein’ her I was barely able to contain my happiness as I spoke.
‘“I’m decided upon a wish, Meera, no longer a young man with so many wishes yet t’ be made, as y’ can see. But this wish is th’ same as I might’ve asked over sixty summers past when first we met. I would’ve eagerly asked y’ to remain with me forever then. But I w’s a man with a dear wife who’s now gone to her grave. What I’m askin’ of y’ this night . . . what my wish is, then . . . is this . . .
“‘Will y’ change for me, Meera? Will y’ no longer be th’ incomplete she-creature I see b’fore me so you can join me by my side? And will y’ find in your heart th’ means to leave the sea and stand by a lonely old captain for th’ remainder of his days?’
“I’d feared th’ laughter of a woman so fresh and beautiful. But she gave no reason t’ doubt her. Instead she smiled, radiant as th’ sun.
“Will you understand, then, Andrew, if I am to be with you I can never remain the same creature you now see before you? “
‘“I understand, Meera . . . Yes, I do understand,” I told her.
I couldn’t tell whether th’ moisture in Meera’s eyes at that moment was a tear or sea water. I’m of the belief that perhaps there was a bit of each.
“Andrew, the sea has always been my home, and so it must remain even while I spend my days with you. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”
I had but one response to that.
“Be with me, Meera,” I said.
‘That is your wish, then?’
“‘Th’ only wish I’ll ev’r ask of y’.’
“And with not another word Meera disappeared beneath th’ waves . . .”
“Forever?” asked Beth.
“No,” answered the captain. “Not forever . . . but isn’t that your mother turnin’ th’ corner this very moment? “
“Awwww,” the twins groaned.
Beth was more succinct.
“Damn!” she said.
Sondra Marchette clearly had indulged herself during her visit to Pier 2. Laden with three bags she performed an indelicate balancing act when she returned to the captain’s fold-out table for her children.
“Magic’s what this must be,” she said to Andrew Doohan. “Pure magic. I’m gone not a quarter of an hour and all three of my little ones are sitting here like you’ve got them enchanted. Will you share your secret, captain?”
Captain Andy’s smile took a moment to appear. “What shall we tell her, children?”
Sean, Mariel, and Beth each laughed.
“Th’ secret lies in the container beneath this old fish scale pouch, Missis. Do y’ care to take a peek inside?”
The twins and Beth rushed forward. They made a circle around the captain as he opened the pouch wide enough for all of them to see the contents of the tiny glass bowl it concealed.
“Why, it’s simply beautiful. So delicate and graceful,” Sondra said. “Is it some type of goldfish? I’ve never seen one so exquisite.”
The captain nodded, the smile fading from his face like melted wax while the children’s mouths fell open.
“There’s none her match, Missis. I would ne’er give her up for all the lost gold in the seven seas.”
Beth clapped her hands, giggling with delight.
“She found a way, Captain Andy, didn’t she? Meera found a way to stay with you!”
Andrew Doohan managed a grin with eyes that remained sad.
Sondra’s attention was elsewhere as she examined the small fish more closely.
“Such a shame, though, ” the young mother said. “One of the poor thing’s fins is torn . . .
“A Tale From Captain Andy” has appeared in Storyteller Vol. 6, Issue 3 (Canada/December 1999), Mooreeffoc Magazine #2, (Winter 2000-2001), Virginia Adversaria Vol. 3, No. 1 (fall 2002), and SciFantastic #4 (UK/April 2006).
Ken Goldman is a former high school English and Film Studies teacher (Horror and Science Fiction in Film and Literature) at George Washington High School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He’s an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association and has been published multiple times since 1990. His upcoming publications include: Potter’s Field 2 (Sam’s Dot Publishing), Fried! Fast Food, Slow Deaths (Graveside Tales), and Dark Distortions (Scotopia Press).
