Tamed by the Creature from the Lagoon

by Clea Kinderton

  I felt my heart skip a beat and took a quick look around. Chet had already disappeared down the lane, but I didn’t see any large, carnivorous animals lurking in the grass, so I hunched down for a closer look. The print was already degrading, silting in from the surrounding mud, which could account for the webbed look. It had obviously been made a while ago. I would have loved to make a cast, but I didn’t have the right kind of supplies and it was probably too wet for that sort of thing. I’d have to settle for a photograph. I pulled out my phone and took a couple of pics from different angles. I could always submit them to the zoology department when I got back to the university.

  It has to be an alligator print, I thought. It didn’t look like any alligator print I’d ever seen, but I wasn’t an expert on reptiles and I didn’t know how else to explain it. I knew it couldn’t be the print of a Fish-Man, because Fish-Men don’t exist.

  I felt a tickle between my shoulder-blades, as if I were being watched, and sprang upright, lunging the last dozen steps to the porch, heart thumping. I fumbled with my keys, glancing warily over my shoulder, and let myself into the cabin.

  Once I had the door safely closed and locked behind me, I felt an immediate rush of relief. No harm could come to me here. This was my fortress, the place of my power, the place where all my happy memories resided. It seemed to be infused with my father’s protective presence. Even if there was a bear or an alligator roaming around outside, it wouldn’t bother me as long as I stayed indoors. I tried not to think about the caved-in shed door.

  I made myself a fresh pot of coffee and changed into dry clothing. I planned on spending the rest of the day reading, but the thought of sitting down with the books I’d brought with me appealed to me even less now than they had that morning. Instead, while I waited for the coffee to perk, I picked through the dusty rows of old books on the bookcase in the living room. These were dad’s old books, the ones he’d read when he was on vacation.

  I picked up a heavy, leather-bound tome that looked to be about a hundred years old and blew off the dust. The title, Cults of the Ancients, was in embossed gold. Although my dad had been an electrical engineer, he’d always been interested in archeology, paleontology, and anthropology, and I blamed my keen interest in science on his own armchair academic pursuits.

  Book in hand, I poured myself a cup of joe and plunked myself down on the worn leather couch.

  The book, written by Hans Lieberman, had been published in 1929, and contained a dedication to J. G. Frazer, the famous anthropologist. I flipped through the pages at random, savoring the smell and dry rustle of the browning paper. The book contained a number of black and white illustrations of Egyptian and Mesopotamian deities and religious symbols with curiously quaint captions about proto-Jesus religious figures and mysterious fertility rites.

  I lost myself for about an hour reading about various creation myths and then, taking a sip of my now-cold coffee, I almost dropped the book. I was looking at a full-page ink drawing of a man wearing a full-body fish suit. The caption indicated that the figure was known as Oannes, a Mesopotamian sage. On the facing page, I read the following:

  The figure of Oannes is generally recognized as being none other than Dagon, an East Semitic fertility god. Certain tablets, recently uncovered in the neighborhood of Ur, seem to indicate that his conventional representation as a man wearing the skin and head of a fish is largely symbolic. He seems, rather, to have been based on a now extinct species of man fully adapted to life under the water, an upright hominid complete with gills, fins, webbed hands, and scaly skin. According to legend, he was a member of a race which periodically came ashore to interbreed with humans. According to the tablets, the offspring of such unions generally returned to the sea to renew the cycle. Such traditions may be discounted, of course, as the fables of a simple and superstitious people.

  A scratching sound at the window made me start and I knocked over my cup, spilling my coffee all over the floor. Heart thumping in my chest, I looked up, only to see that there was a branch lightly brushing against the glass.

  Cursing myself for my suggestibility, I got up and dug out the paper towels I’d ordered from Dan’s. After I cleaned up my mess and tossed the soggy bundle into the trash, I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and tried to shake off the ominous feeling of dread which had begun to settle into the deep recesses of my brain.

  My mind wandered over the footprint in the lane, Courtney’s tale of the Fish-Man, and the staved-in door of my shed.

  Maybe being out here all by myself isn’t such a good idea after all?

  I reached for my phone, ready to call Chet, and then reconsidered. What would he think if I called him and told him I was scared to be alone at my cabin? I’d never hear the end of it. And he’d be right to make fun of me; I was being silly. The footprint was probably just an alligator’s — the lagoon was only twenty yards from my porch. Courtney’s tale was probably the product of an over-active imagination, weed or mushrooms or whatever it was kids her age were doing these days, and a desperate need for attention. The broken shed door could have been caused by a vagrant or mischievous children. There were perfectly reasonable explanations for everything that had happened and none of them required the existence of a water-breathing hominid.

  I leaned back in the couch and relaxed. Through the window, I could see the faint orange light of the setting sun and realized that the rain had finally stopped.

  With any luck, I’ll be able to spend some time in the lagoon tomorrow.

  I looked at the book lying open on the couch and a trace of my doubt began to return.

  What were the odds of stumbling across something like the Oannes myth the same day I’d had a conversation with a young woman about being approached by a Fish-Man? It seemed too incredible, like some sort of cosmic joke, God pulling my leg. Two references to the same creature six thousand years apart? Could there be any truth to the myth? Was the lack of scientific evidence proof that it didn’t exist, or a failure on the part of the scientific community to dig deep enough?

  Certain divergent evolutionary theorists, I knew, believed in something called the aquatic ape hypothesis, postulating that many of the traits of modern humans arose from our ancestors’ struggle to survive in watery environments, like swamps. That would explain our loss of hair, rather like whales, dolphins, and other aquatic mammals. Could some of our ancestors, millions of years ago, have split off, evolving into creatures living wholly underwater? It wouldn’t be the first time a land mammal had returned to the sea.

  I discounted the notion almost immediately. It didn’t seem likely, based on Courtney’s description and the description provided by Lieberman. Oannes and Courtney’s Fish-Man were both distinctly ichthyoid, with scales and gills. But there were other possibilities.

  Had some branch of dinosaurs managed to avoid extinction by moving underwater? After sixty-six million years of evolution — more than enough time for man to evolve from something resembling a possum to a bipedal, tool-using apex predator — had one of those branches evolved into a species of intelligent humanoids? Parallel evolution was quite common in evolutionary history, and the oceans were still largely unexplored. Look how long it had taken us to get good video footage of the giant squid. It wouldn’t be hard to lose fossil evidence of such a species in ocean beds. It was hard enough finding fossils on land; it was all but impossible underwater. And for that matter, fish had been around even longer than dinosaurs. If you went far enough back in evolution, you could trace a path all the way from humans to the first fish to walk on land. Was it possible that a different evolutionary path led from walking fish to humanoid fish-men? Had they shared the seas with dinosaurs? The thought made me shiver.

  I shook my head in disgust. Most of the fossil evidence we had of primeval ocean life was found on land, and often high in the foothills and mountains, where the ancient sedimentary rock had been thrust by geological forces. If anything like the Fish-Man had ever existed, surely there’d be some trac
e, somewhere.

  If I keep this up, I’m going to need a tinfoil hat, I thought wryly. No, if such a species existed, we’d have discovered some evidence of it by now. A skeleton, or a photograph. We’ve been documenting the world for too long to have missed something so important. The natural world of plants and animals, at least as it existed on Earth, was all but a closed book so far as science was concerned.

  Unless it wasn’t from Earth.

  This time, I couldn’t suppress a rueful chuckle.

  Chet’s right. I am losing it.

  I shook off my cryptozoological train of thought and made myself some vegetable wraps for supper. After I ate, I spent the rest of the evening planning my summer lagoon ecology project.

  By the time I’d finished off two glasses of wine, the sky had deepened to the rich dark blue of late evening. I pushed aside my hastily-scribbled notes and my mind once again began to wander.

  If there is a Fish-Man living in the area, maybe I’ll find some evidence of it on my dives.

  Somehow, over the span of a couple of hours — perhaps assisted by a mild case of inebriation — the idea had transformed itself from one of visceral horror to intellectual excitement.

  It would be a great discovery. The greatest kind of discovery a scientist could hope for. I’d be on the cover of every science journal in the world. I could give up teaching and focus on my research. And it would remind Henry just how much he’d fucked up when he cheated on me. That bastard is going to regret boinking that two-bit cetologist. All I have to do is find the damn thing!

  Then I remembered what Courtney had told me in private about her encounter, about the creature’s apparent state of sexual arousal.

  Had it been trying to mate with her?

  It didn’t make any sense from a biological perspective, but it was a danger I would have to consider. It wasn’t unheard of for animals in the wild to attempt to mate with members of other species. Especially if they bore any resemblance to one another.

  I poured myself another glass of wine.

  “It had its winkie out.”

  The thought made me shudder.

  Chapter Four

  I had trouble sleeping that night.

  I laid in bed, rolling from side to side, my eyes flickering open at the slightest sound to take in the dark blue-gray glow of the moon lighting the room.

  My mind was racing, imagining all sorts of nebulous possibilities, wondering what an ichthyo-hominid, if such a creature existed, would look like. There was no reason to doubt Courtney’s description — if she really had seen the Fish-Man — but that left my imagination with entirely too much wiggle room for the invention of horror. I kept picturing her encounter, imagining what it must have been like to face that beast on a dark road late at night, how she must have felt when she saw its engorged reproductive organ.

  The thought gave me a weird queasy feeling deep in my belly, an odd pulling or tensing, as if I were being sucked inside-out.

  I decided it was too hot to sleep in a tee and underwear and peeled them off and tossed them off the side of the bed. I laid on top of the sheet on my stomach, completely naked. The fan rattled on the nightstand beside me like a helicopter, blowing a teasingly insufficient quantity of cool air over my skin. I decided I needed to get an air conditioner.

  After a restless hour or two, feeling frustrated, I rolled onto my back and slipped my hand between my thighs. Sometimes the only way to relax was to relieve some of the tension.

  I wasn’t feeling particularly erotic, so after some deliberation, I settled on one of my stock fantasies.

  I’m stranded on a desert island. It’s a dot on the ocean, covered in a thicket of bamboo, palm trees, and ferns. It’s bordered on all sides by a smooth beach of clean white sand, untouched by any other living person. It’s almost midday and the ocean is sparkling, a gorgeous turquoise as bright as a gem, deepening into a smoky evening blue as the ocean floor drops out of view. The air is filled with the cries of parrots, cockatoos, and terns rising over the soothing roar of the surf. I’m sitting in the shade of a tall palm tree in front of my small, makeshift bamboo hut trying to punch a hole in a coconut with a pointed rock when a man suddenly appears at the edge of the water, surfacing from beneath the rolling tides.

  He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a form-fitting black wetsuit which does little to conceal his magnificent equipage. His strong legs, thick arms, and narrow waist are perfectly proportioned. He pushes back his cap, dropping his goggles in the wet sand at his feet as he walks onto shore. He has short, thick black hair, bright blue eyes the color of the ocean, and a wide, friendly smile.

  I’m not sure how to greet him at first because it’s been so long since I’ve had any human contact. I try to make my lips form words but it’s almost like I’ve forgotten how to speak.

  The man removes his air tank and kicks off his flippers and begins to unzip his suit. I set down the coconut and approach him timidly.

  He strips off the wetsuit, revealing his chiseled, well-tanned figure. He’s naked and already erect, his cock thick and long and pleasingly shaped. I watch him cautiously, both alarmed and provoked by this silent stranger. He walks toward me and, without speaking, grabs me by the wrist, pulling me roughly to his chest for a kiss.

  It’s not a romantic kiss, but raw and sexually urgent. I try to pull away but he tightens his hands around my waist and wrist, crushing me against his powerful frame. I can feel his swollen manhood, hot with the fever of his lust, pressing into my belly. His lips move to my neck, his teeth graze my ears, and his hand moves down my back, slipping beneath the rags that used to be shorts to cup my buttock.

  I pull back, fighting for breath, and suddenly his hands are on the rags covering my breasts, ripping them to pieces as he forces me down onto the ground. His hot wet mouth is on my burning skin, his straight teeth tugging excitedly on my nipple. His hands are on the waistband of my shorts, pulling them roughly down over my hips. I’m overwhelmed by his aggression, by his indifference to my wishes as he has his way with me. I can feel myself getting wetter and wetter, aroused by his brute, animal passion. His mouth moves down my belly, licking and nipping my skin until he comes to the thick patch of hair between my legs. He stops, sniffing deeply, inhaling my scent before attacking my slick crevice with his eager tongue. His lips, tongue, teeth, fingers are all over me, stroking, pulling, prodding, kneading my sensitive flesh. He forces his fingers inside of me, making me groan. My breath is coming in sharp gasps and I can feel my muscles tighten, my hips buck, my thighs clench around his head. Holding him down with two hands twined in his thick hair, I use him as he uses me, grinding against his face as I moan out the first wave of my ecstasy. My whole body vibrates and shivers, pulsing, throbbing, humming with intoxicating pleasure as my cunt clenches around his fingers. Before my orgasm has even begun to subside, he pulls himself up, lifting and spreading my thighs, and forces his cock in to the root.

  Suddenly the thick mass of his erection is stretching my vagina, filling me to maximum capacity. I can feel the heat of his skin and the strong pulse of the blood in his manhood as he begins to assault my slippery passage. His mouth is on mine, his strong, sure lips directing my kisses as his firm hands knead my breasts. He fucks me energetically, with swift, steady motions, and it isn’t long before I’m cumming again, digging my nails into his back as I cry out, howling like an animal. His whole body tenses, his cock turns into pulsating steel, and I can feel the individual throbs, like powerful heartbeats, as his cock jets warm rivers of sperm deep into my belly. Every time he erupts he makes a gasping sound like he’s struggling for breath and his body trembles, the muscles flexing and unflexing. I expect it to end quickly, but he just keeps cumming and cumming...

  I moaned out loud, knees trembling, belly quaking, my legs spread wide. Finally, I rolled over, hugging my hand between my sweaty thighs, my pussy throbbing.

  The fan rattled away, blowing cool air over my back, drying my sweat. I’d kicked most of the
sheet to the floor, but somehow part of it had become wrapped around my ankle. After I caught my breath, I sat up and leaned forward to untangle my foot.

  I heard the sound of a branch snapping outside my window and turned with a gasp.

  Someone’s watching me.

  I scurried back on the bed, clutching the pillow over my breasts, expecting to see the leering face of a man in my window. I could make out the black silhouette of the fronds of the neighboring palm trees against the dark indigo of the moonlit sky but nothing else.

  Heart racing, I scrambled off the bed and backed up against the wall, still holding onto my pillow. I reached into the closet and jerked my bath robe down from the hook and slipped it over my shoulders, knotting the belt. There was still no sound but the sound of the fan, and still no face in the window.

  You’re imagining things, I thought, trying to reassure myself. You heard a branch break, that’s all. It was probably a raccoon.

  My mind vigorously rejected considering any of the alternatives.

  Cautiously, I went to the bedroom door and peered down the hall toward the living room. The cabin was dark and silent. My diving knife was stowed away in a knapsack in the closet by the front door, but I didn’t want to go rooting around for it in the dark so I stepped quickly down the hall to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife from the knife block. Shaking and cold with fear, I tiptoed back to my room and locked the door behind me. I let out a sigh. It was a flimsy door, and a full grown man could easily kick it down if he wanted to, but it would at least buy me some time. My father had taught me how to fire a rifle, but I didn’t own a gun. I’d never liked the idea of having one in the house, but I suddenly wished I had one.