THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE SECOND

     Derrick yelped, dropped the postcard as if it had stung him, then immediately wrestled with the wheel to bring his truck back onto the road. Riley's frantic barking pounded against Derrick's eardrums, and he made shushing sounds as he brought the truck under control.
     "Why did you start reading while on the road?" scolded his dog.
     "I wasn't reading! I just took a glance and then it was like I was there." Riley sighed.
      "These are the shark's stories. You experience them the way they are meant to be experienced. Some can be just read, others you will live through.  That's why you shouldn't read and drive."
     Derrick glared at his dog. "You know why donkeys don't go to college?" he asked Riley. Riley just stared back. "Because no one likes a smart ass," he finished, chuckling.
     "Hey, I actually understand that joke!" Riley exclaimed. "Still not funny, though." Derrick sulked the next few miles.
     He announced to Riley that he needed a drink (and he was eager to see what the next postcard said) and pulled over at a roadside bar.
     Once he was seated, had his drink in front of him, and was ready, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the poscard he'd brought in. It showed a picture of a very frighteningly large mosquito, with the caption: Alaska's State Bird. He flipped it over,  and took a sip of

THE BIG CHILL, REVISED

Perhaps no one was more surprised than Bigfoot when he slipped and fell to his death during a rappelling excursion with his Hibagon buddies. Then again, he was famous for his physical feats, even amongst his brethren of the forests and mountains, so there was no reason to think he’d lose his life in a climbing accident.

Of course, to hear Puck tell it, he’d been there and warned Bigfoot to double check his ropes. Then again, if anyone believed Puck’s stories, he’d been present at each and every event of note in the history of the planet. He’d seen the Sphinx being built, the fall of Rome, the sinking of the Titanic, and had front seat tickets to the first World Series. Hell, he even claimed he was at Woodstock.

There was no denying that Puck was present at Bigfoot’s funeral, however. There he was, dabbing his dark almond eyes and telling anyone who cared to listen how it was he who put the idea into Patterson’s head to make the hoax video.  “That totally threw people off Bigfoot’s path for decades, really gave him some space to breathe, you know?” he explained between sobs.

The Ijiraq turned his head towards the human man who sat next to him, a handkerchief to his nose. For one not used to the various odors of the forest and mountain beings gathered at Bigfoot’s funeral, the stench could be quite mind-numbing.  In fact, the human woman next to the man seemed on the verge of fainting. The Ijiraq smiled in a friendly manner at the man, but the man didn’t notice since he was staring at the enormous caribou antlers protruding from the Ijiraq’s head.

“You’re here for the Sasquatch service?”  the Ijiraq inquired gently, thinking perhaps the human was lost. The man nodded, and lowered his handkerchief to speak. As he inhaled to utter his reply, his eyes immediately began to water.

“Yeah. I met Bigfoot back in ’81 on a camping trip.  I took some pictures, and after he threatened to kill me if I didn’t turn over the film, next thing you know, we were having a few beers, having good conversation, you know?”  The man gestured towards the woman. “The missus didn’t believe me at first when I told her I was making the same camping trip once every year so I could hang with Bigfoot, but then she came along once, you know?”

The Ijiraq didn’t know, but he did know Bigfoot had been quite the people person.  “I am sure he would have appreciated your presence here . . .  ah . . .” he trailed off, pausing politely.

“Phil. Phil Cribbens. This here is Jeanie.” He stuck his hand out, but then his eyes followed the Ijiraq’s gaze downwards at its own hoof. The Ijiraq politely shapeshifted its hoof into a hand to grasp Phil’s, and they nodded at each other in mutual respect.

Everybody in the room suddenly looked to the back, as the doors swept open in a sudden arctic gust to reveal a lovely woman in a white kimono. Yuki-onna, female spirit of the snow and a major babe. Many of the male creatures had to quickly wipe the drool from their mouths, but poor Qiqirn couldn’t control himself.  He let out a howl of lust that caused an incredibly awkward silence (except of course for the howl) in the room, until one of the three Hrimthurs reached out with a long arm and swatted Qiqirn on the nose. Yuki-onna laughed softly, and immediately the tension was broken.  She floated down the aisle, greeting certain beings and smiling at others, until she glided into a seat besides Paul Bunyan, who looked down at her, and gave her a one-fingered hug that completely enveloped her shoulders.

“You look fabulous, girlfriend!” Paul exclaimed. “You must tell me all about what you use on your skin after the service! The Minnesota air is just awful to my complexion!” Then the giant man’s beard split to reveal a pearly smile. “You must meet Babe!” He reached into his satchel to pull out a tiny blue-skinned ox that wore a rhinestone collar.

Behind Paul, Amarok wrinkled his snout in disgust at the giant’s blathering, and began wondering if he could somehow steal the ox away for a leisurely meal to share with his wolf-brothers. Once Bigfoot had been properly transitioned into the afterlife, of course.

                One of the Ents standing immobile at the back of room was startled to see another Ent reach quickly for the coffee urn, and pour itself a large cup, then add a substantial amount of sugar to the cup.

                “Hoom,” the Ent addressed the other, who was now draining the cup, syrupy coffee dribbling down the sides of its mouth, “if I may say so, you seem rather, hoom, hasty enough, without caffeine.” The other Ent ignored him, drawing another cupful of coffee. “You know, I don’t, hoom, er, remember you arriving with my party? What Middle-Earth forest do you hail from?”

                The other drained the second cup, and belched, causing the Ent great consternation.  Then it shrunk and twisted into the form of a pale man. “I’m not one of you,” the man snapped.

                “My apologies,” the Ent said. “It seems I was rather hasty, Leshy. You do make a rather fine tree, you realize.”

                The Yeti, Bigfoot’s longtime paramour, leaned her head upon Saumen Kar’s shoulder, tears running down her sleek fur-lined face. While it was true that she had often cheated on Bigfoot with Saumen Kar, and cheated on Saumen Kar with the Wendigo, she had loved Bigfoot in her own way.

                “Oh, Sasquatch, “ she murmured. Saumen Kar stroked her fur and uttered soothing noises around the unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, acting every inch the supportive friend. But his thoughts were already hotly occupying the night ahead when he could comfort her in earnest. He embraced her, and as the Yeti squeezed him back, she winked at the Wendigo, who sat a couple rows back. The Wendigo grinned at her, revealing its long sharp teeth. Then the Wendigo returned its attention to the very delicious smelling human couple, licking its lips. Phil’s wife glanced in its direction and immediately inched nearer to her husband, her face paler than ever.

                Suppressed giggles emanated from the group of elves as they took turns sneaking under the seat where the biggest Jotun sat and slowly, carefully tied his bootlaces together. After all, the bigger they were, the more hilariously they fell. They were nearly caught in the act by Caillech Bheur, who kept shushing them and threatening them with her cane.

                She wondered where their master was. After all, here they were in Fairbanks, which wasn’t too far from the North Pole. It shouldn’t have been too much trouble for the old man to make an appearance. Unfortunately, ever since he became an international symbol, thanks to that soft-drink company, for one of the most marketed holidays in the history of mankind, it’d gone to his head and he’d turned into rather a dick. An expensive one, too, if anyone wanted him to make an appearance. Caillech harrumphed, and thanked her Irish luck once again that she hadn’t accepted Nickie’s marriage proposal those many years ago. His poor wife must have her hands full.

                Abruptly, the room grew still. Everybody turned to regard the solemn figure standing at the podium next to the colossal coffin. The figure was bedecked in berries and leaves, with long hair that resembled moss growing from its crown and chin. Standing at 6 feet tall, the Waldgeist measured a lot shorter than many of the creatures in the room, but he gave the impression of being tall. The Waldgeist regarded each and every being with its deep green eyes.  It was the oldest guardian of all things wild and of the earth, which vested it with the authority to lead this ceremony of farewell.

                “Brethren,” the Waldgeist said in a low even voice that still managed to reverberate through the room, “kin-” here it turned its gaze to the Barbegazi- the tiny furred hominids who sported feet of the same dimensions as these of their more famous, much larger cousin. “-and friends,” it added, nodding slightly at Phil and his wife, “we are gathered here to mourn the loss of one of our brothers of the earth, the wild and free being known as Sasquatch, or Bigfoot.” A murmur ran through the room, punctuated by the higher-pitched trio of escalating sobs as Paul, Puck and the Yeti tried to out-do each other’s display of bereavement.

                “Although he may have been more foolhardy, or more wiser, who is to say which,” the Waldgeist continued, “by interacting with the human world as much as he did, there is no denying that he never forgot where he came from, or who he belonged with. He always came home, to the forest.” The Waldgeist bowed his head in reverence. The only other sound was the creaking of the Ents also bowing their heads.

                The back door crashed open, causing everyone to jump in their seats and Qiqirn to pee on the floor. Akhlut stood there swaying on his tail flippers.  He waved his wolf’s paw at no one in particular.

“So sorry!” he shouted. “I got turned around up at the Strait, and it took me just forever to track this place down!” He turned his eyes blearily towards Amarok. “Hey there, brother!” he called out cheerily. Amarok pretended to not have heard Akhlut, studiously licking his tail.

                “Cor, bloody eejit’s completely fluthered,” muttered Caillech as she glared at the drunken spirit standing in the doorway. The Waldgeist regarded Akhlut patiently but also let out a deep sigh.

                “Akhlut, good of you to join us. Please, take a seat.” Akhlut staggered down the aisle, lurching into an angrily muttering gnome, whom he used to steady himself. Finally he collapsed next to the Yeti, who he tried to kiss, completely oblivious to the fact that she was already engaged in some serious tongue hockey with Saumen Kar.  

                “Yes. Well. We have gathered here to show our respect for our departed brother, whose life was lost when-” a loud wail cut off the Waldgeist, as Akhlut staggered to his feet and launched himself at the coffin, pounding on the lid. He continued wailing, and Qiqirn began howling in harmony.  The Wendigo got up, to pry Akhlut off the coffin, and a general ripple of discomfort ran through the room. As the Wendigo dragged the orca-wolf hybrid away from the coffin, Akhlut quieted down.  So did Qiqirn, having received another rap on his nose, but this time from the tip of Caillech’s cane.

                That’s when they all heard it; a strange, repetitive sound from inside the coffin. Almost like a grating rattle. The Waldgeist leaned over to listen more closely, therefore nearly getting its noggin cracked as the lid flew open to reveal a pale, Bigfoot groaning harshly.

                “It’s a zombie hominid! A zombie hominid- a- a z-zominid!” exclaimed Phil, leaping to his feet. The giant hairy Sasquatch doubled over, as if in great pain. But then he sat straight up, and the more observant amongst the mourners realized that Bigfoot was . . . laughing!

                Bigfoot pointed at various members of the congregation, clutching his ribs with unbridled mirth. “You gotta . . . see . . . your faces!” he gasped in between whoops of laughter.

                “No!” Saumen Kar roared, launching himself at the startled Bigfoot. “You’re supposed to be dead- you can’t have the Yeti!”

                “What?” Bigfoot roared in return, standing up in the coffin, which caused it to topple off the stands. Being the natural acrobat he was, this presented Bigfoot no difficulty in leaping straight at Saumen Kar to grapple with him. The two hairy beasts staggered around in an angry dance of dominance as pandemonium seized the entire room. The ice giants stood up, forgetting to stoop and they all hit their heads on the overhead beams, causing the building to shake. The Jotun with the sabotaged laces toppled forward, crushing several of Santa’s little helpless under its massive icy musculature.  Akhlut grabbed Yuki-onna, groping her. She formed a club of ice and whacked him over the head over it. As he collapsed, she floated majestically over his prone body and was out the doors, thoroughly disgusted with the entire spectacle.

                Amarok took advantage of the chaos to grab the ox and pop it into his mouth, but Paul saw the blue oxtail disappearing down the wolf-god’s maw. Screaming, Paul grabbed his ax and swung it at Amarok, who dodged it easily. The edge of the blade bit into one of the Ents slowly turning to depart. 

                The Ents have a saying:  “It is better to be patient than to be hasty, for in haste, one makes waste.” This turned out to have another meaning, for the wounded Ent let out a mighty scream that burst the eardrums of the more aurally sensitive beings. Then in its haste, the Ent made waste matter of Paul Bunyan, ripping his arms out of their sockets and beating Paul’s exfoliated face in with them.

                The Ijiraq shifted into a massive polar bear and Phil and his wife quickly climbed onto its back, escaping through one of the stained glass windows into the snowy streets of the town.

                Caillech found herself in Akhlut’s drunken embrace, and when she opened her mouth to squawk indignantly, found it full of orca tongue. She grabbed Akhlut’s head with both hands and began kissing him back in earnest. She’d been alone a long time.

                The Wendigo dove into the wrestling match between Bigfoot and Saumen Kar, seeing its opportunity to have the Yeti all to itself. The Yeti stared at the three giants clawing, biting, and kicking (also in Bigfoot’s case, head-butting) and realized that she was quite horny. Her eyes wandered over to meet those of the Waldgeist. The Waldgeist bowed slightly to her and held out a hand. They quickly disappeared into the men’s restroom.

                Puck stood up, brushed imaginary lint off his suit, and said, “Screw this,” before he strolled sedately out the door.

Perhaps no one was more surprised than Bigfoot when he died from an infection contracted during the brawl. The Wendigo had plenty of rotten meat stuck between its teeth, after all. Then again, he was famous for his stupid pranks and violent temper, even amongst his brethren of the forests and mountains, so there no reason to think he’d lose his life in a hospital bed.

This time, only a few gremlins bothered to show for the funeral.

Of course, to hear Puck tell it, he’d known about the prank all along and warned Bigfoot it was a bad idea to stage his own death just to see who’d come to his own funeral. Puck just had to have the last word on everything.

THE SHARK CHRONICLES: FIRST POSTCARD

     The timing was terrible, Derrick felt, but he also understood that the timing could have been worse; if his dog had spoken a few second later, he would have spilled his coffee into his lap rather just onto his hand as his hand spasmed , crushing the gas station cup. He shook his scalded hand, sucking between his teeth as he gripped the wheel of his ’07 Toyota truck with the other hand, dealing with the ow. Normally, after the first flare of pain, his mind would begin to assess the damage from an injury, but Derrick just kept on driving, staring at the road with unseeing eyes.
     His dog hadn’t really spoken, had he? That was impossible. Yeah, Riley hadn’t said anything. He’s just been on the road too long, Derrick figured. The monotony was getting to him. He didn’t need a rest stop, though, he’d just been to the gas station. But perhaps he should stop for the night, relax a little at some campground.
     "You’ll miss the exit," his golden retriever remarked, with a bit of whine in his words. Derrick swerved off the road, inches in front of the convertible blaring its horn and skidded to a stop in gravelly dirt, scattering dust and upended weeds.
     Derrick shifted into park, then pointed his reddened finger at his dog. "You did not just talk," he declared. Riley stared at him for a few moments, then glanced over at the road.
     "The exit’s right up there," the dog said, repeating the first words, Derrick had heard him speak. Riley panted for a few seconds, then looked back at Derrick. "And I’ve always talked. You just finally understand me now."
     Derrick realized this was a joke. It had to be- perhaps someone had planted a tiny mike on Riley, transmitting a voice for his dog. He reached out to Riley, ready to search for the mike but Riley instead leaped into his lap. "Come on, hurry, Derrick," the dog said, putting its paws on Derrick’s shoulders. Derrick could feel (and smell) the puffs of breath from Riley’s mouth. That could not be faked.
     "How is this even possible?" Derrick demanded, grasping Riley’s head to look carefully into the dog’s eyes.
     "There’s several ways," Riley said, "but based on what I can smell on you, you ate some dragon’s heart at that café where you stopped for lunch." The dog returned to the passenger’s side and pawed at the handle. "I gotta pee."
     "Wait- what? Dragon’s heart?" Now that Derrick thought about it, that burger had tasted a bit off.
     "These things happen." Riley continued pawing the handle. "Pee." Derrick grunted apologetically, and leaned over to open the door for Riley. He also got out of the truck, following his habit of supervising his dog to make sure that Riley didn’t run out into the highway traffic. While Riley investigated the brush lining the shoulder, Derrick slowly ran his hands over his face, his neck, through his hair. The calloused skin on his palms rasped against the auburn stubble on his chin. He losed his eyes, tilted his face up towards the sun. Two birds flew overhead, and he heard one of them say, "-thought it was an owl but it was really just a-" before it passed out of earshot. Derrick’s eyes snapped open, and he turned his head aside to prevent the sun glare from blinding him further. Riley sat next to the truck, tail wagging.
     "I peed. Three times," Riley announced proudly. Derrick knelt to scruff his dog’s ears.
     "Good boy!" he exclaimed. "Hey, I could understand these birds just now."
Riley scratched his ribs with his left hind leg before replying. "Yeah- you eat dragon heart, cooked, and you’ll understand every animal there is."
     Derrick stood up, his hands on his hips. "So, I’m Dr. Doolittle now?"
     Riley cocked his head at his owner. They stared at each other for several moments. "I don’t know who that is," the dog finally replied.
     Inside the cab of the truck, Derrick looked at Riley. "Next exit, huh?" The dog laid its head on its paws.
     "Yeah. Follow the signs to the aquarium."

* * *

     HOMER AQUARIUM. Derrick read the faded hand-painted sign several times before he shrugged and pushed the door open. A dented bell rang, and Derrick glanced back at his dog sitting inside the cab of his pickup, hazy through the reflection of the letters UIRAUQA RE before he stepped inside the dim, one room interior redolent of algae and bleach.
     Derrick’s eyes had just enough time to pick out the outline of the man seated at the unlit desk a few feet away from the entrance when the man spoke.
     "Welcome. You’re here to visit the aquarium?" The man peered at him from behind thick glasses that made his eyes look like they were floating. Even in the bluish dimness, Derrick could see the man was rather disheveled- a combover that needed combing, a filthy shirt, greasy skin. The sound of clogged filter pumps filled the air between them for a few moments before
     "Sure. How much?" Derrick asked, reaching into his pocket for his worn-out leather wallet.
     "Six dollars."
     Derrick handed over a ten, and then pocketed the change, trying not to touch the bills too long after the man handed them over. "Thanks. You got any special attractions I should know about?" The man seemed to consider this request a baffling one. His eyes floated behind his glasses as he pondered the contents of the tanks in the adjacent space. Then he held up a triumphant finger.
     "There’s the shark."
     The shark, Derrick was soon to discover, was the sole resident of the only clean tank in the entire room. The contents of many of the other tanks remained a mystery to Derrick no matter how long or how closely he had peered through the murky glass obscured by algae and snails. He was also pretty sure that more than one fish was motionless or tilting to one side not because it was resting, but instead lifeless. None of the fish spoke to him, but he seemed to know what the various sad and angry creatures felt in their dark cluttered spaces.
       The shark’s tank, on the other hand, was spotless. It was also massive, surprising Derrick with its size, since it was virtually invisible to sight within the room until Derrick stepped between two columns of stacked tanks and saw the bright enclosure. Bright it was indeed, for the tank contained nothing but the shark. No fake coral, no miniature school of fish. Just the single shark that slowly swam ceaselessly. Derrick stood entranced by the constant motion of the shark, which was of an unusual appearance. Its black skin shone like living obsidian, and the speckles that covered its body glittered under the lights. It was like watching a fish created from the night sky. Derrick recalled having read or read somewhere that if a shark stopped moving, it would die. He sort of felt like he was a shark himself. He had never been one for settling down. If he stayed in one place too long, he would start to get anxious and fidgety.
     Derrick jerked back in alarm when he realized the shark was now not only completely motionless, it was facing him, only a few inches away from the glass. It was at an angle very slightly diagonal to Derrick, to allow the full gaze of one eye upon him.
     You are a traveler, the shark said. And a collector. The shark did not actually speak to Derrick, not in the same sense as Riley had, but Derrick could still hear the shark’s utterances within his mind, in the quiet but steely tone of a predator without any fear.
     "I don’t know what you mean about the collecting part," Derrick mumbled, not quite looking into the shark’s emotionless gaze.
     You are a traveler, the shark repeated. Therefore you collect stories. Stories of the people you meet, the places you encounter, the actions you perform.     "You could put it like that, I guess," Derrick finally allowed himself to stare directly back at the shark. A slight shiver ran down his neck, continuing not just down his spine but along his limbs, and he crossed his arms to hide the tremor. Somehow, a shark that could project thoughts was way more creepy, even scarier despite the species’ inherent deadliness. Derrick had watched Shark Week more than once, and was under no illusion that the creature behind the glass, despite its novel coloring and apparent desire to converse was still capable and willing to tear into him. This was a being that needed to be . . . appeased. "Was there- was there something you wanted from me?"
      When you leave here, make a purchase. The shark drifted even closer to the glass, its snout making contact. The collection. It remained still, its skin glittering.
     Derrick waited another minute before he cleared his throat. It was an eternity. "Uh, a collection of what?" Then his blood turned ice-cold. The shark was swimming closer, its snout pushing through the glass as easily as through mist. Yet he could not will his feet or legs to move in retreat. He could barely restrain his bladder from release, as it was. The shark stopped when it was a single inch from Derrick’s sweat-dewed brow.
     Postcards. The collection of postcards. The fifty states of America. The shark suddenly gaped its jaws. Derrick flinched, and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to let go of his bladder. You should read them in order. Derrick clearly heard the clacking of teeth upon teeth as the shark closed its mouth and swam backwards into the tank, spilling not a drop of water, misplacing not an atom of glass. Farewell.     The desk also served as a tiny gift shop, Derrick realized as he shuffled back towards the entrance. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom sufficiently to discern the handful of assorted plastic fish and other marine life, a couple of books, and a revolving postcard stand. Derrick scanned the postcards quickly, turning the stand slightly, and saw the packet. A collection of 51 postcards. Apparently , the District of Columbia merited its own postcard, according to the description on the back. He pulled it out of the rack and placed it in front of the man seated there. He could now see the acne scars on the bespectacled man’s face as the man picked up the packet to check the price, holding it close to his face. Derrick wondered why the man would do further harm to his eyes by remaining in the dark.

     "Enjoy yourself, did you?" the man asked as he tallied the tax and price on a large calculator. "You saw the shark? He’s something, eh?"
     "Certainly is," Derrick agreed as he paid. "Thank you, Homer." The man looked at Derrick.
     "I’m not Homer," he replied. "Here’s your change."

* * *

     Derrick sat back heavily in the cab of his truck, holding the packet in his hands, unmoving. Riley sat next to him, tail thumping slowly. Derrick closed his eyes. The entire afternoon hadn’t happened as he remembered, had it? He’d just imagined the dog talking, the shark swimming through glass. He’d bought the postcards on some indefinable whim, but a whim did not equal magic or mythology. Right? He brought the packet up, turned it over. He slid his thumb under the tab to open it, but then he jumped in his seat as Riley spoke again.
     "Wait, Derrick. Don’t look at them yet. Wait until you have a little more time, so you can read them properly." Derrick exhaled. He looked at his dog with amused anguish.
     "This- you-" he took a deep breath. "It’s all real, then?"
     "Yes."
      Derrick tossed the packet onto the seat, reached into his pocket and pulled out his keychain. Starting the engine, he pulled out onto the frontage road back towards the highway. "We’re really not in Kansas anymore, huh Toto?" Riley regarded him solemnly.
     "I have no idea. I can’t read maps or road signs," the dog replied. He started to pant, then paused. "Who’s Toto?"
     An hour later, as Riley slept, Derrick glanced over at the packet lying between him and the dog. He thumbed open the packet, and pulled out the first postcard on top. GREETINGS FROM ALABAMA, the colorful design proclaimed on the front. Turning it over, Derrick could see that someone had already written upon it, covering the entire back surface with a small but very neat and legible handwriting. Perplexed, Derrick brought the card closer to try and read what

FOLLOW THE DRINKING HORN

The coppery tang spread through Charity’s clenched teeth but she was not aware she’d bitten the tip of her tongue until she spoke. She tasted the fresh smear of blood then, on the double "t".
"Oh, Otter," she whispered, covering her mouth in despairing horror. She wanted to, needed to close her eyes, or at least look away but couldn’t force her gaze away from the slowly swinging body suspended from the tree by a rope around its neck. His neck. Otter’s neck.
She’d known Otter for years- he’d arrived a year or so after she had, and he’d worked on a different plantation, but their paths had crossed often. He’d always had a dazzling smile, an easy way around him, and strong features that reminded Charity achingly, but in a sweetly stinging way, of her homeland. But now he was lifeless, riding a horse born of an acorn. Lynched.
"Safe journey," she touched the very tip of Otter’s toe, to give her wish more sincerity. She shook her head slowly, the crushing weight of sadness causing her joints to move as if they were submerged in honey. Otter had been such a handsome buck.
A sudden flush of shame burned through Charity’s body from her face to the depths of her belly. How could she even think of Otter in the words of the Alabama people? He was not an animal, not a buck. Otter was a man. A man of her own people. From across the ocean.
She was a woman, a slave woman, and one on the run. Charity shivered. It would be a long night, in those woods. But she had to keep on moving if she wanted to survive, and make it to the North. She continued past Otter’s corpse, taking one last look at him before she continued into the dense foliage, stepping as silently as she could. At least Otter was free now.
The arrival of darkness caused Charity both worry and hope. Hope, for then she could see the stars, and use them to navigate. Follow the Drinking Horn, as her people always said, to the North, to freedom, to passage home. Worry, for the nights were now cold, and the woods were filled with animals, some familiar to her, others native to this land and strange to her, also dangerous. Yet of the limited choices Charity had at hand, finding shelter was not amongst them. For warmth and scant safety, Charity could only grope her way through the woods, her eyes straining to see through the darkness, occasionally looking up to check the constellations.
Charity stopped only once in the next several hours, to kneel at a small creek to quench her dry throat and to lean against a tree for a short rest, dozing on her feet. When she wrenched her eyes open, she could see through her burning eyelids that the false dawn was upon her, turning the world blue around her. Blue, the color of sorrow, the color of the ocean- the great watery divide between America and her home.
Charity massaged her stiff neck and then prodded the sore area at the base of her spine where the tree had pressed into her the hardest while she slept. She glanced down at the ground, searching for the stick she’d laid out to mark north, since the stars above had faded into the blueness. Panic filled her veins with fiery ice when she couldn’t find it, but then there it was- the dawn light made everything the same color and so the stick had blended in with the ground. The broken, splintered end pointed northwards, and Charity set out in that direction, attempting to remain facing the same way all the while until she could see the sun and re-calibrate north.
She stopped within sight of a strange plantation, hiding herself amongst the trees bordering the boundary fence. She saw that there was an orchard off a few hundred feet, also within the plantation limits. Her stomach gave a rumble and Charity pressed her hand to it, glancing furtively around as if it was a noise loud enough to give her location away. Staying always inside the shelter of the trees, Charity slowly made her way to the orchard.
Luck was on her side. A couple of the trees grew out over the fence, and a couple branches hung low with apples, well ripened and nearly ready to fall to the ground and burst, but Charity was not choosy at all about this unexpected gift of food. She didn’t even have to cross the fence into the plantation property, which was a hanging offense (poor Otter) if she was caught and charged with trespassing on top of the other offenses already upon her head. She simply stepped up onto the first rail of the fence and quickly picked five apples, gathering them in the tattered remnants of her skirt, shoving a sixth into her mouth, relishing the juices that flowed onto her tongue. She tilted her head back to prevent any from spilling out of her mouth, and so didn’t see the person staring at her in open-mouthed surprise until she heard her speak.
"Who are you?" Charity nearly lost her balance, hastily stepping back off the fence rail and staggering back a few steps. She did lose the apple she’d had her mouth since she had bit down involuntarily. She quickly swallowed the bit in her mouth, but she relaxed a little when she saw that the other woman was also a slave. But not too much- many slaves were loyal to their masters and would betray their own for a reward.
"Nobody just a very hungry girl," Charity spoke. She didn’t know if her name had been put out as a runaway, so best to be careful. The other woman, a girl, really, glanced behind her fearfully,
"You shouldn’t be here, stealing apples. The Chief wouldn’t like it," she said, but without any real rancor in her voice. Charity nodded, backing up.
"I’m just hungry. I won’t stay, you don’t have to say you saw me- I was never here." She could see doubt in the girl’s eyes, and the girl’s mouth moved as if trying to work out a reply. "Please," Charity said, in the old tongue, the tongue of her people. The girl bit her lip. Then nodded. Charity turned to hurry back into the concealment of the trees, but then the girl called out after her.
"Hey!" Charity’s heart began to beat hard. She considered just running, but then turned back to face the girl. "His Eye upon you," the girl said, reciting the ancient blessing a little haltingly, as if she had learned the mother tongue from other slaves, rather than having been born with it. Charity smiled sadly, and gave the girl a wave before merging back into the leaves and shadows.
The apples were revitalizing for Charity, and she actually felt a small glow of optimism within as she made her way further away from the hellish place she had known as home for many years. She almost failed to hear the horses in time. But she was still a warrior at heart, and so her instincts saved her even though her mind had been adrift in happier environs than her reality.
She froze after she heard the second nicker from the horses. Then she could discern their hooves falling upon the thick carpeting of leaves and rotten twigs. Horses. Another thing the Alabama people had appropriated from her culture. Such thieves! And they were worried about her stealing a few of their apples? She crouched down low, listening intently to the approaching horses.
Her attention was so focused upon what lay ahead of her that she forgot about what lay behind her- until an unseen person grabbed her from behind, pulling her arms back painfully in a powerful grip. Charity prepared to fight and try to escape, but abruptly stopped as the unseen person called out in a masculine voice, "We got a shill!" She then realized that her captor wasn’t alone. Better to wait and see how this played out
"One of ours?" came the answering query, among increased approaching noise of the horses. So they had riders. Charity kept her head down. Maybe, just maybe, her clothes, cast-offs from one of her master’s daughters, and the fact that she was covered nearly head to toe in swamp mud and forest dirt that she had smeared over herself to conceal her tell-tale features would be enough to-
"Pretty sure she’s a spook!" Charity’s lip curled at that hated epithet they used. As if she was less than human, just a spirit; unsubstantial, forgotten. But in the legends of her people, spirits had great power, and so that was something to find pride in.
"A spook, eh? Let’s see who she belongs to then." Speaking of her as property. When her clansmen had gone to war against their enemies, they slew every one. They never took prisoners. Better to allow their enemies the honor of a respectable death than to take away their dignity. Her culture used to find suicide disdainful, but now it was often considered the better alternative by many of the would-be slaves, who found many ways to take their own lives during the long voyage over the Great Sea, while deep in the holds of a longboat. People as property, so unheard of in Charity’s homeland.
The source of the answering replies came into view, a large, slightly stocky man seated upon a palomino, who nodded, not at the sullen woman facing him, but at her still unseen captor. Then he indicated for another man, riding up on his left to do the obligatory check. This man dismounted, and grabbed Charity’s chin in one calloused hand, jerking her face upwards to gaze into her eyes. Then he ran his fingers roughly over her mud-caked hair to reveal the glossy roots underneath. Grunting with satisfaction, he still chose to make more one evaluation of her race. Spitting into his palm, he wiped away at Charity’s cheek, revealing the true hue of her flesh.
"Was I right, boss?" came the voice from behind her, tinged with eagerness, like a dog awaiting a bone. Charity’s inspector grunted.
"Well, she ain’t one of us, definitely. Spook shill we got here," he declared to the man Charity guessed was the "boss", the chief of this searching and or hunting party. Boss man simply held his right hand out behind him, towards his other compatriot on a third horse, who was already fumbling through a bag of rolled notices and untying the leather thongs to un-scroll them and study them, comparing the renderings done in charcoal on them to Charity’s face. He squinted at one particular one, double-checked Charity’s face, then grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
Charity then knew that her status as a runaway slave had already been made public notice, with a sketch of her face circulated among the nearest villages and plantations. She sagged a bit, but her captor, perhaps suspecting trickery, only tightened his grip.
The notice-bearing man declared, "This one! Says here this is Charity, of the Tuskegee plantation." He thrust the notice into the boss’ outstretched hand. The boss glanced at the sketch, which was crude, even caricatured, but still enough of a resemblance to Charity.
The bossman cleared his throat. "Tuskegee plantation. I know the clan there. They’ll pay the reward, and promptly too, no doubt. Especially for such a prime piece. Well done," this last was directed towards Charity’s unseen captor. " You just might learn to be a decent tracker after all." A general round of laughter came from the three men Charity could see, and she felt her captor’s hands tighten even further. A youngling, she thought to herself, even as she gritted her teeth against the numbing of her forearms and hands.
"And the best part?" The bossman continued, revealing a very ugly smile, as he returned the notice to the man behind him. "The reward shall be paid all the same, provided we return this shill without any visible damage."
Charity’s heart turned to ice at these words. She was no innocent babe, having lived in this bewildering pit of despair known as America for several years. She had already learned that being someone’s property meant that someone, and everyone he or she allowed, knowingly or unknowingly, had access to every part of her body. She’d borne two half-breed children, who she’d never seen after the initial glimpse she had as they were lifted beyond her trembling reach by the midwife, who was actually one of her own race, but without even an ember left of the fire her people had in their eyes.
The hunting party chief now dismounted, landing on his feet heavily, a sure sign he had grown soft in his life of ill-gotten luxury. Addressing Charity’s captor, he said, "Alright. Make her . . . comfortable. We’ve got plenty of privacy right here."
"You’re not going to plow her here?" The disbelief in the unseen’s man pushed his words to the quavering edge of breaking. A very young man, then. A boy, really. But children grew up too fast in this New World, as Charity knew all too well at seventeen years of age. "Shouldn’t we just return her?"
"That’s enough croaking out of you, Little Frog!" snapped the bossman. "After all, she needs to be disciplined. And this is a sight better, and much less effort, than a whipping, is it not? Make her comfortable!" Then the bossman let out a harsh chuckle. "No need to be sore, Little Frog. You’ll have your turn, too."
Charity was pressed down onto her knees, then jerked back by her shoulders, so that she landed with a squelch in the fetid muck. Now she could see the smooth-cheeked face of her captor. Truly a boy, he stepped back with a face of confusion and resentment. Charity would have to endure the filthy embrace of at least three of these four, if the boy couldn’t be coerced into taking a turn. As the chief knelt, tugging at his breeches, his grimy broken teeth in stark contrast with his sun-burnt skin, Charity closed her eyes and turned her head away. She tried to dream of the beautiful terrain of the village she still thought of as home, when she had been a little girl-
A strange thunking noise, and a heavy squish, combined with a sudden weight upon her legs caused Charity to snap open her eyes. She looked into the lifeless eyes of the chief. Above the fallen body, the youngling stood, a bloodied rock in his hands. His eyes were wide in perplexed shock, as if he didn’t quite understand what he had just done. Charity may have known the boy’s strength, but it appeared he hadn’t known his own.
The man who had dismounted first gave a shout and drew a dagger, but in spite of being named for a sluggish creature, Frog move with the nimbleness of a boy on the verge of manhood. He leaped forwards and smashed the rock down on his assailant’s hand. Then even as his attacker groaned and released the blade, the youth snatched it out of midair and threw it at the third man, still upon horseback, with deadly accuracy. The third man fell over and off the horse, the blade buried almost halfway in his throat. His noisy landing upon the swampy ground was accompanied by that of the would-be attacker, his temple now as bloody as his mangled hand, as he too collapsed.
Charity scrambled to her feet, while Frog stepped over to his prone clansman and pulled out the dagger. Charity backed up a few steps, ready to flee, but Frog was suddenly in front of her, blade at the ready.
"I’m really sorry," Frog mumbled, looking out at her under lowered lids, " but I do need to take you back to your owner. I just- I just felt you ought to have the proper treatment-"
A reddish haze dropped over Charity’s vision at those words. This arrogant boy dared to speak of proper treatment when he came from the hated people of the South, the people who saw her and all of her race as nothing better than animals to be traded, abused and used for labor. They treated their dogs with more respect.
With berserk swiftness born of desperate fury Charity snatched at the blade, enclosing the edge with her fingers. She sliced her flesh to the bone as she gripped the blade hard enough to yank it out of the surprised youth’s grasp, but she still managed to reverse the blade as she switched it to her other hand. With this usable hand, she plunged the knife into the boy’s heart. She heard his ribs crack with the force of her thrust.
Clutching her dripping, ruined first with her other hand, she staggered over to the horse with the bag full of notices at its side. The horse whickered and shifted restlessly as she rummaged through the notices, until she found the one with her sketched rendering . She wrapped her throbbing hand in the notice, smiling grimly at the thought of the blood blotting out all the information on the notice. She used the leather thong to secure her makeshift bandage, pulling the knots tight with her teeth. She approached the same horse, speaking softly in her native tongue, which she so much preferred to the mush-mouthed language of the Alabama people. It had been a long time since she’d been on the back of a horse, but she had learned to ride as a child. As soon as the horse appeared calm enough, Charity made a clumsy but quick enough mount.
She looked up at the sky to orient herself, then with a clucking of her tongue and a quick dig into the horse’s sides with her heels, headed North again, leaving the carnage behind, but taking the bag of notices with her. If she could buy her countrymen a little more time in their own escapes, so much the better.
She braided her hair loosely, shuddering inwardly at how filthy it was. Once she got far enough North, she’d give it a good washing, and finally once again proudly display the golden hair that marked her as one of her people, the Vikings.
She glanced back at the now-hidden clearing where there lay four bronze-skinned bodies, and spat. The Alabama people, the natives of Alabama were the color of clay, which broke or crumbled, even when forged in fire. But Charity was descended from the first people- Ash and Elm, and she had a backbone as strong as a mighty tree. And Charity- no- she would no longer go by her slave name, but her birth name, Æsa, which meant "to stir up war". And Æsa would organize her people. She’d form a convoy, an underground one at first, until she had gathered up enough warriors among her people to bring their own personal Ragnarok upon the Alabama people, to show them what the Hammer of the Yellow Folk, called spooks , or ghosts for the color of their pale skin and icy blue eyes, truly meant.
North, then. She’d follow the sun during the day, and the Drinking Horn at night until she came to Newfoundland, where distant kind of hers lived. And there she’d start the revolution, even if it took her until she was an old Grandma Æsa. She looked heavenward, and whispered a prayer for Otter. "Your Eye be on him," she prayed of Odin, the All-Father. Then Æsa rode on, dreaming of Vallhalla and the glory that awaited her.

The Beginning of it All

Hello Everyone!

This is a sort of personal testing ground for me- where I will see if I can generate interest in my writing beyond my circle of friends (thank you all for being such loyal readers, incidentally) and hopefully begin the road to publication.
Last year I challenged myself to post 12 stories on Facebook, one per month- which I managed to pull off- and I will also post these stories here eventually- but now I've decided to up the ante a tiny bit.

52 stories.

Yep- 52 stories- averaging one a week (the first two will be posted together next week)

They also will be tied in together thematically- stories about all 50 states and the District of Columbia, with a framing story to tie them all together as a single anthology called "The Shark Chronicles"

The title idea comes from the fact that certain species of shark have to swim constantly to keep breathing since they have to aerate oxygen through gills that don't actively pump water like the gills of other fish, and the theme idea comes from achieving my goal of visiting all 50 states, which I was able to complete in March of last year.

So, over the next 52 weeks, I hope you will find sufficient pleasure in reading what I have to offer.

Thank you all

Crom Saunders