THE SHARK CHRONICLES: POSTCARD THE THIRTY-THIRD

Darren didn't bother to look over the North Carolina postcard before he began reading it, it was a photo he had seen before anyway of a tourist trap he had actually gone to several years ago while on a trip to the Outer Banks.

WAVES

“This I hold true, as God be my witness,” the sailor declared, slamming his palm upon the table. A regrettable action, as his hand landed in the middle of a large ale puddle, splashing himself and Zachariah rather liberally. Zachariah pursed his lips, but said nothing. His clothes were due for their bi-weekly wash as it were.  Besides, his landlady was sure to scold him for sousing himself with the drink, whether it be on him or in him.

            “Call me a drunkard, a gadabout, even a lickspittle,” the sailor continued, wiping his hand on his shirt, but not without first licking off the ale upon his palm. “But a liar never, for the seas hold a great many wonders undreamt by these who never venture out by ship.  Any who say I bear false witness had better procure proof most indisputable that he were there as well, or he shall find himself sporting a blackened eye and perhaps worse.” The sailor paused, squinting around the smoky interior of the pub. When he spied the serving-maid, he let out a bellow. “Ho there another pint of ale for me and-” he peered at Zachariah. Zachariah quickly help up his half-depleted tankard.

            “I am not in need of another draught just yet, thank you,” he assured the sailor. The sailor grinned and called out to the serving-maid once again.

            “As I said, another pint of ale for me, and for me!” he laughed boisterously. He leaned towards Zachariah, intending to whisper conspiratorially, but instead continued bellowing. “I got coin enough tonight and as I may not have much time left on this earth, I see no reason to endure the tedium of sobriety!”

            Zachariah smiled wanly. “Indeed,” he murmured, darting his glance around the crowded interior, but any hope he might have had of relocating to another table or even an available stool was immediately dashed. The Three Acorns was filled to beyond capacity on this unusually cold and blustery August evening.

            “Do pardon my departure from the tale at hand,” the sailor continued, settling back into his chair. Zachariah nodded slightly raising his eyebrows to suggest interest. After all, there was naught better to do until he had drunk his fill.

            “We were pointed easterly, having just begun the return to home port here, which was a good fortnight’s journey. The hour was perhaps but a score past midnight, and the moon at nearly full wax. Being due for the end of my post up in the crow’s nest in ten minutes, I’d already climbed out.  I spent the better part of these ten minutes hanging from the rigging just below the nest, waiting for Slow Dick to relieve me of my watch.

            This was the happenstance which allowed me to perceive what I would well have missed had I waited out the full watch before descending all the way down to deck. While swinging from the rigging, I saw this flash of – well it was bright. I possess not sufficient knowledge of the rarer hues of this world to name the specific color I saw there in the sea, but it was a color I would know at once should I clap my eyes upon it again.

            So you may be sure I brought all of my attention to bear upon this vision. I assure you, sir, that this was no vision of the mind, but a vision of loveliness. As God is my witness, there was a female in the water. She was clearly in no distress of any kind, and she was also clearly in no clothing of any kind, if you take my meaning.

            “There she was, swimming in the brine. The most curious thing was, she swam like no mortal I ever saw, but more like a creature of the sea, do y’ken? Like a rather beautiful fish. A dolphin.” The sailor sighed, shook his head and took a long pull from his tankard. Zachariah waited a while, turning his head to study the child who knelt in the straw a small distance away, but there came no further discourse. Zachariah glanced back at the sailor, and started slightly to see that the sailor was gazing at him with great interest. The sailor inclined his head at the child, a boy.

            “The boy yours?” the sailor said, spirits now beginning to slur his speech. Zachariah had to lean in closer to catch the words. Once done, Zachariah pressed his lips together into thin discontent. He nodded in silent reply. The sailor leaned back in his seat with a grunt. “Hard luck, sir. Has he been afflicted since he was born?”

            Zachariah pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger nodding tiredly. “Yes, and his mother did not survive the birth,” he added. “I have had the sole burden of raising him alone.”

            The sailor exhaled loudly shaking his head. “God’s will. It may be a mystery to us, but his Divine plan is not ours to question, sir.”

            Zachariah tipped his own tankard to see if there was any ale left. There was not. He briefly considered calling for another but there was a sour taste in his mouth, and it was not a result of the ale. The hour was also growing late. “I must take my leave, sir,” he told the sailor. “The boy needs must be put to bed.”

            “A good night to you, sir,” the sailor retorted, raising his glass. Zachariah bowed slightly, and stood. He walked over to his son, who held a stick in his hand, drawing letters in the dirt beneath the hay. The boy’s actions could not be called “writing” as such, for the boy did not understand language. He merely drew the shapes he saw everywhere on signs and papers. As Zachariah bent to grasp the boy’s shoulder, he saw what the boy had drawn: NGAKOOWL. Indeed.

            The boy turned his head, startled by his father’s touch. “Come,” Zachariah told the boy, already knowing his words meant nothing to the child, “it is time we be on our way.” He pulled slightly on the boy’s arm, and the child got to his feet, dropping the stick. Good, Zachariah thought to himself, the child was tractable this evening. He oriented himself towards the door, and then stopped. He approached the sailor, who apparently had ordered another pair of ales for himself and himself.

            “Pardon me sir,” Zachariah spoke inquisitively, “but you piqued my curiosity . . . what of the woman? The one in the water?” The sailor looked up, and Zachariah blinked, surprised at the depths of sorrow and fear within the drunken man’s eyes. In vino veritas, Zachariah mused even as the sailor spoke with a voice raw with private agony.

            “No woman,” the sailor said, shaking his head. “She was a siren. The Greeks spoke truly in their stories.” Zachariah waited for the smile, the guffaw. There came none. He nodded slowly, readjusting his grip on the increasingly restless boy.

            “Very well, if you choose to immerse yourself into alcoholic fantasy, that is your choice. Good night,” Zachariah snapped. Before he could turn away however, the sailor slammed his fist onto the table.

            “No fantasy! Did I not say call me a liar never? ‘Twas a siren, by sooth, and it destroyed all the crew but me, who alone survived. And now for eight fortnights, the damned creature has followed me from port to port. It comes here, even as we speak, and I fear truly for this colony, for I have not found ship’s passage from here. If it should discover me here, then there shall fall a doom upon all of us,” the sailor nearly screamed. “Leave me be!”

            Zachariah shivered. The night air must be quite cool. However, when he turned to look at the entrance, the door was firmly closed. Without any further waste of time or words, Zachariah pulled his boy along with him as he stepped outside.

            Later that night, when most of the colony’s populace was abed, a shimmering creature rose out of the water by the docks. It appeared to be a human woman, and yet not so human that it looked out of place in the seawater. Its nostrils flared and it bared its sharp shark like teeth as it caught the scent of its elusive quarry. A few more sniffs informed the siren that the quarry was still present in this colony. With a silvery laugh, the siren swam as close to the shore as possible. Then it began to sing.

            The song filled the minds of the slumbering populace as much as it did the late-night people, drunk and sober alike. At first, it was all the men only who rose from their beds, from their tables, from the street gutters, to walk towards the docks. But as they began to splash their way into the water, eyes blank and mouths open, the siren did not see the sailor she sought amongst them. So it changed its song. And the women and children followed.  And the last of the men, including these unable to walk on their own. These last few; they dragged themselves to the edge of the piers and fell headlong into the water.

            Still the sailor did not appear. The siren sang for another hour, but its quarry never appeared. It had no way of knowing that the sailor had drank himself to death only a few hours before, and now lay stiff and cold. The siren screamed and gnashed its teeth. Finally, it dove underneath the water, shoving aside the corpses of the colonists aside with fury as it headed for the deep.

            In the morning, the boy awoke. He wandered through his home, searching for his father, but could not find him. He made a meal of the fruit and biscuits in the larder, and then went outside to entertain himself. Within a few hours he had ascertained that he was alone in the colony. Tears streaming down his face, he burst into homes and frantically searched for people. He began to moan, a high keening noise escaping from his lips continuously as he continued his vain quest for any signs of humanity.

            Nearly two weeks later, the boy had exhausted all available edible food he could find. He had no knowledge of preparing food or gathering edible plants or hunting, so he began to starve.

            Stomach wracked with pain, and the crushing weight of loneliness upon his shoulders, the boy barely had strength to divert his own attention from his plight, but he tried. Upon discovering a penknife in one of the abandoned homes, he went outside and carved some letters into a tree. The effort left him utterly exhausted.

            The day came he could barely see for hunger. The sun sparkled upon the water, and he waded into the water to drink the seawater, even though he knew that it was bad for him. As he bent forward to scoop the briny water into his mouth, the scared, filthy, emaciated deaf child stumbled forward and under the water. He never rose up for air.

            The colony was still, the homes empty. All that remained were the letters the boy had carved upon the tree: CROATOAN.