I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and checked the reception. I still had a signal, so if worse came to worse I could still call the police. I closed the shutters on the window and locked them and sat back down on the bed, hugging the pillow. Then I leaned over and shut off the fan.
I remained like that for about twenty minutes, my ears straining for any sound. Sweat was running down the back of my neck and under my robe. I was exhausted.
You’re being ridiculous, I thought. There’s nothing there. Go to sleep.
I curled up on the edge of the bed furthest from the window, hugging the pillow, the knife lying on the mattress within arm’s reach. And somehow, as anxious as I was, I managed to drift into an uneasy slumber.
Chapter Five
I woke up drenched in sweat. Dim light filtered into the room through the cracks around the shutters. The knife lay gleaming dimly where I’d left it on the mattress.
I pushed myself up and grabbed my phone. It was a quarter past seven in the morning.
I felt like an idiot.
All this talk about the Fish-Man has me jumping at shadows.
I got up from the bed and opened the shutters. Bright sunlight flooded the room. I looked out through the window at the grass, shrubs, and trees behind the cabin. A bird was perched on a branch grooming itself. No Fish-Man in sight.
I unlocked the bedroom door and walked to the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker, then had a cool shower to wash away the grimy, icky feeling that seemed to have taken possession of my body.
Showered and dressed, I felt a strange sort of vigor. It was the kind of enthusiasm I usually only experienced on the first day of school. I realized that it was relief mixed with excitement. Relief because the dread and anticipation of the night before were over, and excitement because I had my whole vacation ahead of me. All this talk about the Fish-Man had put me into a suggestible frame of mind, like a schoolgirl prodded by her friends into playing Bloody Mary. There was no Fish-Man. It was a preposterous urban legend. How could I have ever even entertained the notion? I shook my head with a grimace. If my colleagues ever found out, I’d be a laughingstock. I might as well have been afraid of being abducted by aliens or attacked by zombies.
That’s not the way dad taught you to think, Kate. You’re a scientist. Stay grounded.
I opened the window overlooking the lagoon. The water was as still and reflective as a mirror. The brilliant sunlight and the crisp, salty, slightly cool morning air coming in off the ocean made me feel intrepid and adventurous, ready to take on the world.
I poured myself a cup of black coffee and made myself a slice of whole grain toast with honey and sat down at the kitchen island with a book on freshwater habitats.
I couldn’t wait to begin my analysis of the lagoon’s ecosystem. It’s true that Atlantic coastal habitats weren’t my specialty — I’d done my dissertation on nautiloids, a sort of shelled squid found in the Indo-Pacific ocean — but I knew enough to get by, and I’d been boning up. My preoccupation with the lagoon’s ecosystem had started as a way to avoid dealing with my feelings about my husband’s infidelity, but it had quickly spiraled into a genuine curiosity. The lagoon in front of my father’s cabin was my opportunity to teach myself a fresh branch of my favorite subject, reconnect with nature and the great variety of creatures that existed on this beautiful planet, and escape, for a time, the complicated drama of living with an unfaithful man. The project made me feel young and hopeful again, a feeling I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to recapture after Henry’s betrayal.
As I munched on my toast and drank black coffee, I skimmed through a chapter on amphibian reproduction. If the Fish-Man had existed — and of course it was utterly absurd, but for sake of argument — it would have to be some type of amphibian. More technically, based on Courtney’s description, a type of amphibious fish, like some kind of giant, bipedal mudskipper. Though I’d been planning on diving directly into my study of the local ecology after finishing my breakfast, I soon found myself immersed in a pile of books looking for some kind of scientific — or at least plausible — justification for the existence of the Fish-Man.
Hours passed, and by noon I was mentally exhausted. I hadn’t come across a single shred of scientific evidence that there was or ever had been such a creature. I might as well have been trying to justify the existence of centaurs or leprechauns. It was clearly ludicrous, and I felt disgusted with myself for giving into the temptation to entertain the notion.
I got up from the nest of books I’d created for myself on the floor and stretched. The glittering water of the lagoon beckoned to me through the window with an appeal that was far from academic. I knew I should be dragging out my gear and getting started on my project, but I’d been working for almost ten months straight without a break at the university and I’d gone through the stress of my husband’s infidelity and subsequent separation. Didn’t I deserve a few hours of rest and relaxation? A little peace of mind and a good tan? The detailed analysis of Florida’s lagoon ecology could wait. And the sooner I forgot about the childishness of the Fish-Man the better.
I slammed the books shut and stacked them neatly on the table, changed into my favorite, florescent orange bikini, lathered myself in sunscreen, and threw open the door to the porch.
The air had grown almost suffocatingly hot and humid again, and the hum of the cicadas seemed unusually pronounced, a sound that had been all but drowned out by the metallic shuddering of the fans inside the cabin. The water of the lagoon was a glassy green near the shore, darkening to a bluish evergreen at the far edge.
I made my way down from the porch and followed the dirt path to the small dock at the water’s edge.
It wasn’t a very big lagoon — no more than two hundred yards in length and perhaps half that in width — and I’d swum its length on more than one occasion, but it was big enough to contain a mystery or two. It was neither fresh nor salt water, but rather a spring-fed pool closed in from the Atlantic on the east by a sedimentary barrier beach thick with grass and shrubs. The pool was joined to the ocean by a small inlet at the south end which at high tide let in a considerable amount of salt water. The west side of the lagoon was bordered by a hard limestone escarpment rising several feet above the water. The escarpment was overgrown with wiry trees and shrubs, which provided a good deal of shade in the afternoon, and the cliff face below the waterline was pocked with crevices and caves. It was here, somewhere under the escarpment, that the hot spring was located.
Chet and I had often jumped into the lagoon from the escarpment when we were kids, but our parents had forbidden the exploration of the cave openings with stern prohibitions reinforced by dire images of getting lost in the murky darkness and drowning. As an experienced scuba diver, I knew how dangerous those environments could be, but I fully intended to explore them as part of my analysis of the lagoon’s ecosystem. With the right equipment and preparation it didn’t need to be any more dangerous than taking a hike in the woods.
The south side of the lagoon was mostly forest and scrub, a patch of rough, rocky wilderness that became increasingly wet the further south one went until the land itself gave way to mangroves. My father’s cabin — my cabin, now, I realized — was to the north, that part closest to civilization. Though the cabin and lagoon were somewhat isolated, there were enough cottages, roads, and trails in the area to make it seem anything but wild, and it wasn’t unusual to see fishing boats following the coast or to encounter hikers on the trails nearby. The sound of birds chirping, the faint, steady rush of the ocean tides, and the buzzing of mosquitoes always made the place feel more tranquil than dangerous.
I walked to the end of the dock, my bare feet padding along the warm, rough wood, and stared down into the water. The lagoon was like a liquid emerald, a gently undulating, crystalline palace. The sandy bed, no more than thirty feet below the surface at its deepest, was snug beneath a blanket of turtle grass. Round mossy rocks had been scattered here and there on its lush, swaying c
overlet like pillows. Dragonflies hovered over the gleaming surface of the water, glittering like fairies, while underneath tiny silver minnows, no bigger than my finger, darted to and fro like little knights in shining armor, attending to urgent business before scattering to hide in the subaqueous greenery.
What other creatures are hiding down there?
Just the thought of studying the lagoon’s ecosystem, a dream I’d had since I was a child, filled me with excitement.
Though the water was brackish, the flow from the spring and the influx from the ocean at high tide ensured that it didn’t become stagnant, and the unique mineral deposits of the spring combined with the high salinity of the inflowing seawater prevented the kind of bacterial growth that led to the dangerous infections one sometimes acquired from fresh water pools in the region. The lagoon had another benefit as well: since it was cut off from the rivers and inland lakes and ponds, and protected on one side by the escarpment and on the other by the ocean, alligators rarely found their way into it. And when they were present, the clarity of the water made them easy to spot. Looking around, I felt confident that I was in no danger.
The lagoon beckoned to me.
I stretched my arms and legs, took a deep breath, and dove into the water.
The lagoon embraced me, a furious burbling of bubbles and a chill flash that shocked me at first, but left me feeling invigorated. I cut several strokes through the water and then surfaced, wiping the wet tangle of hair from my face. I dog paddled for a bit, catching my breath, and then swam out to the floating dock in the middle of the lagoon. Out here in the center, the turtle grass gave way to long clumps of seaweed several feet deep. There were plenty of places for smaller water animals to hide if they wanted to, and it wasn’t unusual to come across a snapping turtle, or even a big catfish brought in with the tide, but I hadn’t seen a single living creature between the beach and the dock.
I pulled myself up onto the buoyed wooden platform, spilling water everywhere, and sat on the slippery edge, dangling my feet in the water. I looked west toward the escarpment.
I had no idea how far inland the underwater cave system extended, but I knew there could be miles of tunnels riddling the bedrock, with openings all over the swamp and along the coast. Like a big, rocky sponge filled with water.
If I was a Fish-Man, I’d use those tunnels as a base of operations, I thought, amusing myself.
I doubted that many, if any, of those caves had been explored; it wouldn’t be very hard for a cautious man-fish to get around unseen. Everyone talked about exploring space and the ocean, but how many gave any thought to what might lie hidden right under their feet?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it just might be possible, in a remote, one-in-a-million sort of way, that a new species could exist right below our noses. A shy, intelligent animal who knew better than to get involved with humans could hide in those caves for a long time, possibly thousands of years, without ever being detected. And if they were remotely intelligent, they might bury the remains of their dead deep in underwater caverns, much as early land-dwelling humans sometimes buried their dead in aboveground caverns, making finding any remains even more difficult. A race of aquatic humanoids traveling through subterranean passages might also explain the Scape Ore Swamp Lizard Man sightings of South Carolina. Even if someone did occasionally spot a Fish-Man — or a Lizard Man — who would take them seriously? I remembered how mercilessly Chet had teased Courtney, and how angry he’d been that I hadn’t thought it every bit as ridiculous as he had. And I had laughed when I’d read her story in the Democrat. I didn’t know anybody in my circle of friends or acquaintances who would take the idea seriously. Even suggesting the possibility that such a creature existed without incontrovertible proof would be professional suicide.
But the look of terrified certainty on Courtney’s face when she’d told me about her encounter had been too unsettling to disregard out of hand. And now, between the reference to Oannes in Cults of the Ancients, my understanding of the massive scale of evolutionary time, and my own musings on the nature and extent of the underwater cave passages, I realized that the possibility of meeting a real, live Fish-Man was no longer so entirely far-fetched as I wanted it to be. Sitting alone on that dock, kicking my feet in the water, looking into the tantalizing depths of the lagoon, I felt a sudden chill, like ice water running down my spine. I jerked my feet out with a splash, hugging my knees to my chest. Isolated and alone, half-naked and defenseless, I suddenly felt very vulnerable.
The cry of a gull made me start, and I turned in time to see it rise from behind the sandbar. I scanned the long grass apprehensively, watching for any sign of movement, but aside from the swaying produced by the breeze there was nothing. A faint sound of motors caught my attention, and I saw the distant sail of a boat scudding along the ocean. Two white trails followed behind at a distance. Jet skis. Slowly, imperceptibly, hypnotized by the droning of insects and reassured by these signs of ordinary life, my fear gradually abated.
You’re being silly again, Kate, I chided myself. There is no Fish-Man. What would your dad think if he could hear the thoughts running through your brain? There’s a very simple explanation for why no one believes in the Fish-Man: because he doesn’t exist.
Why was it so hard to let go of something so preposterous?
The plain, unfinished wood of the dock was hot from the sun, and the heat was soothing the tension from my back and shoulders. Suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of lethargy, I crawled to the center of the dock and rolled onto my back, squinting up at the sky. The azure vastness was free of clouds. I shut my eyes and let myself succumb to the relaxing motion of the dock. The rocking was barely perceptible — the lagoon was almost as smooth as a mirror — but I could feel it tickling in the back of my awareness, a gentle rise and fall and swaying as the dock drifted slightly at the end of its tether. I could feel the sun prickling my skin, and after a while I began to feel a bit like a wiener baking on a grill. The sound of the cicadas was occasionally interrupted by the buzz of a fly or mosquito. Somewhere out over the marsh, I heard something that I thought might be a loon, but it was too faint to be sure.
I’m going to fall asleep if I stay like this, I thought, reluctantly rousing myself.
I rolled onto my stomach and propped myself up on my elbows, looking out across the lagoon through the shrubs and palms growing on the sandbar to Apalachee Bay. The water looked so peaceful, like a sparkly dark blue carpet stretched out under a big pale blue bowl. The warm breeze blowing in off the Gulf, just strong enough to tickle the little hairs on my arms, brought with it the musky salt-sea odor that I knew so well. I inhaled deeply, breathing a sigh of relief. In spite of all the campfire story chills I’d given myself, I hadn’t felt so at peace in a long time.
As good a time as any to get a tan, I thought, reaching behind me to undo my bikini top.
Normally I’d be too self-conscious to tan topless, but I wasn’t in any danger of flashing anybody. The closest person was probably miles away. Even the Shell Point sailboats looked like tiny toys creeping slowly across the bay from here.
I settled down, pressing my cheek against the hard wood, and stretched my arms out along my sides. After a few adjustments, I felt perfectly comfortable.
I’ll only stay like this for twenty minutes or so, I thought. Then I’ll do the other side. Then I’ll swim back to shore and make myself some lunch.
The thought of being grilled like a wiener had given me an idea.
Hot dogs and a nice cold beer, just like dad used to make.
Of course, when dad made dinner, he’d given me root beer.
I miss my father.
The steady drone of the cicadas and the gentle lapping of the water were the last things I knew.
Chapter Six
I woke with a start. The platform was wobbling. The plunking sound of something hard hitting one of the hollow drums — not heard but remembered — was still ringing in my ears.
I raised my head and looked around the edge of the dock, trying to see into the water. There was a slight ripple spreading across the surface, already fading, but nothing visible below. I shaded my eyes with my cupped hands and peered through the gaps between the boards, trying to see under the dock, but it was too dark to make anything out.
Cautiously, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. I knew a gator could get onto the dock if it really wanted to, but it wouldn’t be easy, and, unless it was hungry, odds were that it wouldn’t try. I was relatively safe so long as I stayed put.
But how the hell am I going to get back?
I scooped up my bikini top and tied it back on. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, but the skin on my back and shoulders felt tender, even with the waterproof sunscreen.
Stepping softly, I crept to the edge of the dock where I thought I’d heard the sound coming from. My toes tingled, like they were about to be chomped. The water was smooth and dark where my shadow obstructed it, as glassy as a mirror.
Maybe a turtle, I thought, trying to reassure myself. Even a catfish might have made a noise like that if it hit the drum hard enough.
I remembered the print I’d seen in the path and shivered.
Could it be...?
I pushed the thought from my mind with a silent, nervous chuckle.
You’re crazy, Kate. This isn’t some B monster movie. For the last time: there’s no such thing as the Fish-Man!
I walked around the perimeter of the dock, staying a foot or two back from the edge and bending over to look into the water. My hair kept getting in my eyes so I held it behind my ears with my hands.
I wish I hadn’t swum out here, I thought, reproaching myself. I should have taken the boat, like I usually do.
It was reckless. Stupid. I’d made the trip without being prepared.
Tamed by the Creature from the Lagoon Page 4
