The world was a brilliant green. Although there wasn’t much to it. When the waves were calm it didn’t look too different from a field. An endless field in every direction only broken by the distant hulking target.
For the uninitiated it would be unnerving.
Aden checked the rebreather one final time and broke the surface with nary a splash. Not that it mattered at this distance. The environs were as limitless as before. Though now without the stars the world had grown more alien than an interstellar cruise.
Unhooking the scooter from the rubber hull and pointing northwest he engaged a trio of silent jets. This was his favorite part. Plunging toward insertion with all the sonic fanfare of a minnow, he reveled in the weightless flight.
Three and half miles and some adjustments later he was within range. He left the scooter letting it hover. After assuring the thing was synched with his watch he swam the remaining mile and half to the colossal hull of the Mortimer.
My wingtips scraping up wet sand and sullying my slacks.
It was empty.
Not a soul in sight.
An occasional seagull or distant pelican were my only companions.
The grey cloud littered sky threatened neither rain nor shine in its resigned indifference.
I was not indifferent.
I had to know.
The old man lived on an island just a half mile from the coast.
The pier was ancient. Whatever lumber or process had been used was definitely excellent. The antique bolts and joists spoke of a long forgotten century.
The dinghy was moored to a post.
I should have dressed more appropriately.
But I also should have been warned of a swim.
That was all irrelevant.
I waded almost to my waist and awkwardly hauled myself into the boat.
Motor traffic was strictly prohibited in the cove.
A death in the family takes Jim Cleary from Boston to Appalachia. There amid the grey and green Kentucky hills sits the Cottage his great-grandfather built. The rustic calm gives little hint of what lies beneath the stars that hang so silent, cold, and bright.
Note: This narration contains music. Some of which may not fit the mood the story has you in. Difficult to have good production values on a limited budget of time and funds. So, I also uploaded without music:
Pain, fatigue, and cold screamed through every sinew. He raised himself by the elbow wincing at the sensation of rough stone on that tender joint. It was absolutely pitch black.
If he were any less than completely exhausted, he would have panicked.
Holding his hand mere inches from his eyes, he saw nothing. He fumbled through his jeans. And he praised God for his addiction. For there in his right pocket was the more than half spent pack of Pall Mall’s and within the comforting smoothness of metal.
The Zippo was a small comfort. But it was comfort enough.
The dimensions of where-ever the hell he was were impressive. He walked forward cross stony dust littered ground and found no wall. He walked backward and got the same result.
His feet screamed.
‘Where the hell are my shoes…’
He slumped down and laughed as a sharp pain shot through his ass.
He brought the Zippo down. It was a stalagmite.
“Great. I’m lost in a fucking cave in Frog Balls, Kentucky.”
There had to have been something more than whiskey in those bottles.
‘Probably all part of their little plan. Clever fucks.’
Jim was never one to feel sorry for himself. He’d done too much sinning for self-pity.
‘Well, I got in here somehow. So, I’ll get out of here somehow.’
He tried to recall how he’d gotten here. But to no avail. It was that same chasm of ignorance that always followed a night of getting black-out drunk.
He absent-mindedly picked up a stone and chucked it into the yawning depths that drowned him.
To his great surprise he heard it splash.
Slowly, painfully, he rose to his raw-worn feet and advanced in the direction of the invisible oasis. Though he heard no stream, where there was a pond, there was a chance of one.
He walked forward for what seemed like eternity. It was good that he was a stubborn proud son of a bitch. Because a meeker man may well have wasted precious time repenting for ending up in hell.
“Oh, fuck yea.” He said dipping his feet into cold water. The smooth silt was such welcome relief from the rough and recent passage to this haven. He lingered there for a bit at the shore of some great subterranean indoor pool.
‘Might as well head left.’ He gambled and began to trace the shoreline with his feet as he ambled awkwardly along.
Tracking time was impossible, so he tracked footfalls. Though this too proved futile after the first few hundred. So, he walked, and he walked.
At first, he thought he was hallucinating.
“What in the fuck is that…”
Far from the shore where the depths of the lake should be, he perceived a strange blue shimmer.
Yes. It was unmistakable. There in the path of his current direction and outward past the shore was a light that grew brighter as he advanced.
He stopped when the brightness reached what he guessed was peak luminescence. After taking a few moments to ponder he said, “Fuck it.”
Jim waded till the water reached his waist and began to swim. Stopping just above the brightest shimmer he could see clear down to the bottom. Though the source itself was nowhere to be seen.
Curiosity overtook him and Jim dove.
He opened his eyes and thanked God that the liquid didn’t sting them The water was clear so very clear. It was uncanny. It stirred some vague memory.
And slowly he recollected the contents of that recent dream. Though he couldn’t breathe the water, everything else, was the same. There were the myriad submerged islands bearing stones with strange reliefs.
He surfaced and rested.
‘Well, I guess swimming is easier than walking.’ And he continued his leftward course.
After some time, he began to hear a gurgle. A sound for which he was grateful because the light had dissipated long ago. He swam towards it blindly.
It grew louder.
‘Fuck. Which way is the shore?’
He guessed and swam. But it was too long.
‘Fuck.’
He was beginning to feel the first stages of panic.
He had no clue which direction to take. He was surrounded on all sides by pitch black water. The strange blue light was long gone, and he was utterly alone without a thing to guide him.
‘Well, I can sit here like a bitch and drown, or I can drown trying to get to a tumbler of whiskey.’
He chose the latter.
And after three unsuccessful forays he finally reached the shore. Plodding along where the water met silt, he advanced towards the gurgling sound.
When it was as loud as daytime TV he inclined towards the sound with his Zippo.
Sure enough there was a small brisk stream flowing into the lake.
Jim followed it up a gradual incline.
Hope began its cautious return. And its return wasn’t in vain.
Because soon he beheld a greying in the blackness.
And then something far more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld.
There just a few hundred yards ahead was an aperture. Bright daylight revealed the verdant Kentucky green just beyond the man-sized opening through which the streamlet flowed.
Afternoon found him stiff limbed and groggy. Jim reengaged the safety and set the twelve gauge gingerly on the wood panel floor.
It was stupid to sleep with a loaded and ready weapon. It hurt a bit. He could stand to be a fool but not an all-out idiot. For better or for worse, the sting of self-criticism was short-lived.
Soon his mind recalled the reason for this folly. It replayed the strange melodic chirping, the peculiar pitter patter of flesh on shingle, and Jim shuddered.
He shuddered at the possibility of the unknown. What if his tidy theory was wrong? Most frightening of all, was the idea that for the first time in his quarter century of living, he was out of his depths.
So, Jim was silent as he methodically went about his morning ablutions.
He recalled Kenny’s advice. “Listen ya little shit. You think you’re real smooth. Which is why one day you are guaranteed to fuck up. Sooner or later something always throws us off balance. Let me tell you an old corpsman’s trick. Act natural, act ritual, keep tidy, shave every morning even if you don’t ever shave. Keep your sideburns trimmed. Floss those pearly whites. Gain as much control of the close and minor as possible. The rest will follow. This is the rule of momentum.”
Jim brought his chin to a porcelain smooth polish. His sideburns were soon impeccable. Tucking in his shirt he went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast with a determined circumspection.
Soon his brain produced another theory.
‘They’re tryin’ to spook me into their game. They want me to be a link in the chain. To be a little messenger boy at the safe house. Without even knowing it. That’s why they were up there playin monster. They want me to believe in voodoo rather than let me into the money. Outsiders are too much of a liability even if they’re kin. I know this gangland shit.’
His habitual calm returned. Though only for the span it took to cross his threshold.
The brilliant noonday sun revealed a once familiar meadow crisscrossed by a gridlock pattern of circles within circles.
‘If this is a ruse. It’s god damned elaborate!’ He mused as the chill tendrils of doubt once again crept into his psyche.
Where there is doubt, there is the unknown, where there is the unknown there is fear.
“No.” Jim said aloud.
‘I refuse to be fucked with. I don’t care what sort of Scooby Doo shenanigans these fuckers throw at me. I’m not gonna lose my shit over eccentric landscaping.’
He strode out into the peculiar mist that was so strange for midday. Save for it and the weird circles everything seemed normal.
Birds twittered and insects sang. Wind rustled and trees swayed. He focused on the normal.
‘Yes, in fact everything is normal. There’s nothing abnormal about mischief. Especially from locals to an outsider.’
Still, he figured it wise to stick with his original plan and lay low for a bit.
He considered setting more traps. But there was no way to tell if he was being watched. There were at least half a dozen intruders as far as he could recollect. Any of the tens of thousands of trees could hide them. They could be watching even now.
Jim offered up a double bird salute and went inside to think.
The cottage was strange and silent. It did not creak. It was so perfect still. He felt as if he inhabited a hermetically sealed box.
He didn’t know why it hadn’t bothered him till now. The silence was deafening. He could not stomach it.
Jim took quick efficient strides to the record player.
While he wasn’t particularly keen on the Beatles he figured ‘any port in a storm.’ So, it was that the needle found Abbey Road.
Yet, no music played. Jim leaned forward to try to see what went wrong.
Before he could complete the troubleshooting a crisp clear voice with a Nordic lilt broke through the speakers.
His eye fell on the neat red script. He should probably read the contents.
Maybe they’d offer up some clue as to the identity of his furtive visitors.
Then he remembered the meandering sentences, the puerile mysticism, the Talmudic dryness. He could not bring himself to do it.
‘It’s just hicks being hicks.’
Still, he thought it wise to postpone his exploration. At least for a couple of days. He needed to mull a bit. It was imperative to get to grips with the peculiarities of the situation.
‘If Dutch and Lizzy roam fearless there must be a reason.’ He theorized. ‘Though they sure are superstitious fucks.’
Then it occurred to him. Maybe, all of this worked like a mob. Maybe there were some degenerates in the woods. And townsfolk like Lizzy payed them protection. Maybe that was the cause of the Seng offering. It was, after all, a root that fetched a handsome price.
It did make sense. It made perfect sense. All the voodoo bullshit was a great way to throw the assuredly few cops off the scent. The feds probably didn’t care unless there was meth involved.
Hell, there probably was. How else did Hant afford all that crystal-ware.
‘What kind of redneck melodrama have I gotten myself into?’ Jim shook his head.
Yes. The Seng and the ways were probably some sort of elaborate communication system for a drug ring.
This put Jim at ease. He was used to dealing with criminals. Hell, he was a criminal in some regards.
A wicked smirk broke out. ‘I don’t think they’re used to city cunning.’
He very much doubted these blissful surroundings could produce the same level of soul crushing cynicism as cold blood-stained concrete.
Truth was Jim had grown icy under the bleak grey Boston sky.
“I’m gonna catch me a hick!” He murmured with amusement as he lit another cigarette.
The second Thursday was approaching. The due date was three days out. This was ample time ‘to go all Vietcong ‘n shit.’
He slept on that notion.
Awaking before dawn with the aid of an antique alarm Jim set out for the drop zone with a shovel in hand.
‘Yep, that’s the angle they’re gonna come at it from.’ He said looking at the moss the hicks had mentioned.
He began to dig. Country living had made him strong. So intense was his focus that neither root nor rock impeded a steady progress. It was just over three hours toiling that a six-foot-deep, three-foot-wide, manhole appeared on the mossy side of the stump.
He filled the hole three quarters of the way with loose leaves and twigs. Then covered these with a layer of topsoil. He made good and certain that the thick grass looked as natural as it had before the soil was disturbed.
This being done he lugged the wheelbarrow full of remaining earth back to the cottage and into the basement.
The early waking and the heavy labor took their toll. So, having assured that he was neither watched nor followed he resumed his self-interrupted slumber.
This time he dreamt of nothing whatsoever.
He awoke with a sense of foreboding. Something was off though he couldn’t place his finger on it.
It wasn’t the fact that it was dark outside. This much he had expected.
He went round the cottage checking all the windows and all the doors. He even went into the basement.
Everything was in order. Yet he still couldn’t put his mind at ease.
‘Maybe it’s been too long since my last whiskey.’
He poured a glass and sat on the couch. He sat and his ears began to listen.
There was no owl. There was no whippoorwill. All that he heard was the strange pleasant chirping.
A chill ran down his spine.
‘They’re talkin’. That’s how these assholes signal each other. Clever fucks.’
The chirping was louder and closer than usual.
‘Shit they might actually be plannin’ an ambush.’
That’s why the actual fauna opted for radio silence.
Jim sought higher ground in his uncle’s attic bedroom. He was used to raids from hooligans. The Carter economy wasn’t kind to latchkey kids. And latchkey kids weren’t kind to each other.
He switched his .38 for the Mossberg he’d found in the safe he’d cracked. Sometimes crime did pay.
He made certain to leave the light off. Carefully, tentatively, with the gingerness of a practiced surgeon he moved the curtain and peeked down into the yard.
Sure, enough every so often he saw brisk silhouettes flitting through the dark. But they moved so quickly he couldn’t make out any details.
‘Methed up fuckers…’
What the hell were they doing though. Leapfrogging? He was familiar with some military tactics on account of Kenny, but this pattern of motion made no sense. It was really more like serpentine but there were no snipers.
An ambush usually involved a slow, steady advance, like a cat stalking a mouse. Or a sudden strike like a snake in the grass.
This was neither.
‘Fuckin’ crazy hicks.’
He was entranced. So, entranced in fact that he almost didn’t notice the quick light footsteps overhead.
‘O hell no.’ Jim said releasing the safety and backing away from the window.
The chirping was everywhere. It sounded like a whole army of stealthy hicks were runnin’ unshod on Hant’s roof.
‘How the hell…’ Jim couldn’t figure it out. The angles of the cabin were so neat and the roof so lofty that access from outside was damn near impossible.
Suddenly, just as quickly as the chorus had started, it ceased.
Still, Jim held his position till dawn. As the sun began to rise, he fetched the alarm and set it for noon. This being done he laid down in Hant’s bed with shotgun in hand and napped.
An original story I just made up as I sat here in front of the microphone. I was hoping to get some Halloween spooky stuff done (on or by Halloween) but life happened.
This idea had been milling about in my head and it came out ok. I used the name Alan Rickman and then realized it was a real person. O well…it took me half an hour to render and I’m sure Professor Snape won’t mind being fictionalized as an institutionalized salesman.
The music is awesome and free domain as far as I know. If you have similar needs or just want some atmosphere check out this link:
The Fractal Journal 