Mist and Shadows: Short Tales From Dark Haunts (3 page)

“You have to stop calling me. I’m too tired to deal with you, this is too much and I can’t be your strength anymore.”

“I see,” he says.
 

I hear a quiet
click
and the line is dead. I stare at the receiver, then quietly replace it on the cradle. He hates me. I know it in my gut. I know it in my soul. He will love me, hate me, forever. Instinct takes over, I run to the door, lock it and press my back against the cool wood. How many nights will I stand here? How many nights will I watch the doorknob, waiting for it to turn?
 

Siobhan & The Siren

(Originally published in Haunts Magazine, 1994)

Eight days out from Hanging Point the sea turned choppy, where ocean waves mingled with the sapphire forks of the water Wastes. Here, the water turned a brilliant aqua. No land could be seen from this point, only the outcropping known as Dead Hand’s Rock, and it was this landmark that the sailors used to guide their way, fearful of the legends enveloping the stone, but even more fearful of getting lost in the great water Wastes covering more than two-thirds of the world. Once lost in the eternal azure of the Wastes, a man would go mad and long to join his soul with the soul of Aqualia, and many had died in attempting to breathe the air of the seas.

Siobhan adjusted her position so she could stretch her legs and watched as hours passed in quiet meditation. Her father had recently failed to return from a voyage at sea. His friends said he jumped the boat at Dead Hand’s Rock and they blamed the siren. Siobhan wanted to find out for herself, so she stole a skiff and sailed out of the channel into the waterways. That was seven days ago. Tomorrow she would reach her father’s death site. From there, she had no plans.

Too young to claim a part of his inheritance, too old to be taken in by friends, Siobhan accepted the challenge to survive and made her way on her own. Now, with the future uncertain, she calmly enjoyed the solitude so seldom available at home and, whatever came of tomorrow, she would welcome in the dawn.

“Hard keelwaves coming in,” said Tolly. Siobhan patted the ogritte’s head and nodded.

“Yes, little navigator. I see. The weather will be rough tonight. Will we bear the storm?”

The ogritte shrugged. “Bear
what
storm?
 
If the storm turns, we might live. Should it be too wild, we will die. Such are the ways of the wastes. Storms are individual. We will do what we can.”

That night, the winds swept up and Siobhan was forced to layer three blankets around her to keep the chill aside. Tolly clung to the mast of the one-sail ship with determination. Instinct warned the ogritte to flee, but loyalty won over and near midnight, Tolly landed by Siobhan. “We’re not going to make it. The boat will crack. You should prepare.”

Siobhan’s heart chilled. To be lost in the wastes without a boat was certain death. No one would think of rescue. It was not the way. When Aqualia called, the goddess expected an answer. Death by storm was an honor. Death by water, a gift. To die in fire was disgrace—so the gods had decreed it.

Food into pack, blankets strapped tight, what else to be done?
 
Everything readied, the only thing left was the final crack of the boat, the sinking of the skiff. Siobhan dangled her legs in the water and occasionally cast a look at Tolly. “What shall you do when we go down, faithful one?
 
No boats needing navigators come to our sight. Will you die?”

“An ogritte born of water?
 
No, I won’t die. If Aqualia claims me for the change, I’ll climb on the circle and go ‘round again.”

Siobhan nodded. “Why shouldn’t we get the chance as well?
 
Why only one life on land?”

“Because, silly bird,” Tolly piped, “you are not waterborne. Only those born of Aqualia are given second lives. But your life goes into the wastes, enlarges them. You’ll feed the world with the water of your body. Your soul will be free to swim.”

The snap of the mast came at dawn, a downfall of wind and thunder with white waves shielding for battle. Then, a thin
snap
heralded the break of the joint and, as the boat drifted, the army of waves ripped it apart.

Tolly went down, uncomplaining, and Siobhan did not weep. You do not mourn great honor and renewal. But an ache in her heart replaced love. Soon she had no support, but managed to snag hold of a small board that bobbed in the shifting currents. She held tight. Until Aqualia pulled her under she was duty-bound to survive. Life was hard in the Wastes and not to be given up lightly.

Dawn broke, calming the winds. The water stilled, the storm abated. Aqualia waited in sea-green depths, crowned with a tiara of shells and wearing a shining robe of woven weed. As she slipped into unconsciousness, Siobhan thought she heard her call.

Eight days out from Hanging Point the sea turns choppy, where ocean waves mingle with the sapphire forks of the water Wastes. Here, the water turns a brilliant aqua. No land can be seen from this point, only the outcropping known as Dead Hand’s Rock.
 

The siren leans back on her elbows, sunning herself. The glorious golden morning dries her hair and draws the chill from her body. The Wastes were cold last night from the storm and she is tired from battling through the waves. The siren is fair, with pale skin and hair the color of the sky. Her eyes reflect waterfalls, and her scent, the flowers from the grotto of Aqualia.

She sits here every day, watching and waiting, a priestess of a Water Goddess, a sentinel of the Wastes. And now, in the water near the Rock, she spies a woman child, not full grown but come of age. The girl floats, clutching a broken board, her eyes closed. The lute which stands next to the siren lets out a clear, crystal note. With a smile that eclipses the sun, the siren glides into the water and draws the girl onto Dead Hand’s Rock.

Siobhan’s eyes fluttered open. Bright light, blinding light, and the sound of sea birds calling. She struggled to her feet and immediately fell again. Too weak, too hungry. Tolly was dead, that was her last memory.
 

When her mind cleared she opened her eyes again and slowly rose, propping herself with elbows on hard stone. One glance told her. Dead Hand’s Rock. And a basket of sea fruit sat beside her. Nothing else.

Hunger knifed her stomach. She bit into one of the fruits. The spine-chilled globes of plum and kriel were sweet. The plants grew thickly under the surface out here, sailors were able to survive on them when their water supplies ran low. Siobhan ate deeply, the fruit restored her will, and when she finished she stood to assess the borders of her new land. Twelve strides wide, fifty strides long. No caves on the sides, no shelter, no growing things. Who had left the basket of fruit was a mystery, but for now, one she could ignore. It was enough that she lived. Aqualia was not ready to call her yet. As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Siobhan sheltered herself from its rays with one of the blankets she’d managed to save and slept.

The night was calm, warm with a gentle breeze. At midnight Siobhan woke to see another basket of fruit and she heard a splash. Hesitant to question the gifts of the gods, she returned to sleep on the granite. Waves crashed against the Rock, familiar and strangely comforting.

Three days and another three pass. The siren wearies, but knows she must not stop. Fruits picked from the garden of Aqualia sustain Siobhan and change her. On the seventh day, she brings a lute and leaves it along with the fruit. Each night, she sings songs to the dreaming girl who will not wake. Music is passed from mouth to mind as a legend is created.

Siobhan plucked quietly at the strings of the lute. Her solitude appeased her. There was nothing to worry about. Her food was provided, her dreams were rich and full of color and sound. As time passed, she found herself slowly forgetting her father and family. It was as if she had always lived on Dead Hand’s Rock and had known no other life. On the morning of the eighth day, she looked into the water and saw her reflection. Her hair, so long the color of wheat, was now streaked with blue—the blue of the sea. She reached for a strand and then stopped. Why should she be puzzled?
 
Hadn’t it always been this way? Her eyes were the violet of twilight, the time of sirens and dreams. She gathered up the basket and dove into the water, swimming deep and far to gather her breakfast. It had always been thus and would always be.

The mists roll thick around the edge of Dead Hand’s Rock as the water laps gently against its sides. Aqualia has been silent lately, her storms at a lull. Siobhan plays on her lute, singing the songs of her life, of her goddess. There is a sound in the mists, as a net of golden song shimmers out from the lute, echoing to draw in the ship. She smiles as it crashes into the rock reefs and the men plunge into the depths, to meet Aqualia. The sound of their death hails the birth of new water. She continues to play as the ship sinks, and in the hovering mists of the twilight, the siren waits.

Minor Deaths

There is blood on my hands.

Spattered dots, stippling my fingers.
 

An icy white vanity with gold faucets...clouds of mist shadow the rest of the scene. It is the most natural thing in the world for me to be here.
 

White sink, red blood—a trail of pink as the water splashes over my hands. I scrub with a washcloth but the blood clings to my skin, a thin layer of red sealing my pores. My hands stand out from my body. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with them. Right now, I don’t even know if they’re mine. I don’t remember where the blood came from.
 

A murder?
 

A sacrifice?
 

Did I cut myself on a cold slice of breath?
 

Then, without warning, I’m back, in my own bathroom, staring into the mirror.
 

I remember now. The pen broke. It snapped when I was writing in my journal. I pour scouring powder on my hands and scrub them again. The ink won’t come off. I stare at my eyes and see the distant sparks of stars, then dark shadows circling. What mad wanderer have I become?
 
A shift in consciousness and I am gone. Another, and I am back. And then, Patrice is there, gazing over my shoulder. Her brilliant brown eyes are the dark heart of the forest. She is a child of the Earth, not meant for star hopping and galaxy jumping. Her arms slip gently around my waist and she brings me back, grounds me into this world again. She is my anchor and salvation. She is my obstruction and barricade.
 

“Someday you’re not coming back. I know it.”
 
Patrice is my best friend, when I’m out of the SYSTEM. She’s too beautiful to compete with and too nice to be jealous of. She’s also my lover and now she reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. I think she’s going to cry.

“Someday you’re going to plug into MAX and you won’t be able to get out. Or you’ll have a flashback, like today. Either way, I’ll lose you. I don’t want to lose you.”
 

I hear the whisper of pain in her voice. We have these discussions every time I come home. I’m tired of them, but Patrice means a lot to me so I don’t argue. I let her vent. After all, to love a Jumper is madness, second only to becoming a Jumper oneself.
 

“You know I can’t get out. I signed up for five years. They own me.”
 
It’s true. Once you’re in the SYSTEM, you don’t own the soul you were born with. I belong to them until my contract is up.

Patrice sniffles. “I’ve been thinking...what if you got pregnant?
 
They’d have to let you out then. And we’ve talked about when to start a family...”
 

This thought has crossed my mind before but I don’t want her to know it. Because the truth of the matter is that I
like
being a Jumper. It’s addictive. Everybody says they want to stay in for the full five years because of the pension. If you make it through with your sanity, you’re set for life. But all the Jumpers know that it
really
isn’t about money. It’s about the promise of discovery. The carrot that someday, on a jump, you might actually touch the core of the universe. You might see God in the eternity of the abyss. And
that hope
, my friends, is the addiction.
 

“It wouldn’t work. I’ve got a five year implant. Ninety-nine point five percent effective.”
 

“No way to bypass it?”
 
Patrice is good. If anyone could work the odds, she could.
 

I shake my head. “No, they’d trace a set up.”
 
That’s not necessarily true, but she doesn’t have to know that.
 

“What if
I
got pregnant?”
 

“No dice. You know the insurance looks out for my spouse and family if something happens to me. You’d be taken care of, so would the baby. There’s no way out, Patrice. Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready for children yet. The SYSTEM’s had four years of my life. It feels like four hundred. Just one more year left, just one, and then we can go anywhere we want. I was thinking about Bali. Or Tahiti.”
 

She swallows her tears. I know how much she wants children but I can’t face that bond now. I can’t face that tie to the Earth. She sees it in my eyes and drops her gaze to the floor. Patrice knows when to give up. She sips her wine and shrugs.
 

“Fiji is nice,” she whispers and we spend the rest of the evening planning our future.

But I know her mind’s a million miles away, and so is mine. I’ve got another Jump tomorrow.
 

The laboratory is warm, too warm for me now but when I plug into the SYSTEM, my body will need the extra protection. The flesh gets cold when the spirit jumps out.
 

I hate this place. I hate the stainless steel and white enamel. It’s all so black and white. So sterile. There’s no color, no odor save for the ever-present chemical disinfectant. The only music is the gentle hum of the machines. And yet, this is my altar, my place of worship. I am a supplicant of the stars and here I come to meet my Gods. The laboratory is my temple and Margaret is my Priestess.