The Ghost Sequences

by A. C. Wise

  Beginning at the base of the tusk, the first moment shows only the creature’s face in close up, struck through by bars, indicating imprisonment.

  The next scene shows the creature at full length, secured by a manacle about its ankle. Although the phase of the moon etched above it points to the passage of time, the artist still shows the creature’s hair as ropes of wetness, coiled against its skin. The pattern of scales is shaded more subtly, and the gills are less pronounced. Accentuated, however, is the narrowing of the creature’s waist, giving the illusion at least of the slight swell of breasts and a roundness to the hips. The captain holds a lantern aloft to study the creature. A faint pattern of crosshatching behind the captain, but separate from him, suggests a shadow watching from an unseen distance.

  The third scene depicts the captain’s stateroom, a small table illuminated by candle-glow and laid with a rich meal. The captain sits opposite the creature. Thick chains bind the creature about the legs and waist, but its upper body and arms are left free. Bones litter the plate in front of the captain, while the creature’s plate remains full, piled high with food untouched. The captain’s expression is one of slack fascination; the creature is watchful, tense, its mouth open ever so slightly to show the edge of its teeth.

  Next, three men—one bearing a bandage partially covering his face—study the creature from a safe distance. Shadows partially obscure the creature. Perhaps it is a trick of the lighting which eliminates the curve at hip and breast, returning the creature to a more neutral form? Though the face itself is inhuman, the creature wears a very human expression—hatred as it glares from its chained position at the watchful crew.

  Following this, the same three men are shown wrestling with the creature, then restraining and leading it by a rope. The creature’s forward progress is ensured by means of a harpoon. A wound upon the creature’s side—just below the slit of its lowest gill—leaks blood, highlighted by the artist through the heavy application of ink.

  The creature is next seen secured to the deck, ropes binding each wrist and each ankle, holding it splayed. The wound upon its side is longer in evidence—either sealed of its own accord, or merely omitted by the artist. The three men stand with their heads bowed in conference. The creature’s face is turned towards them, lips skinned back to show its needle-sharp teeth.

  A fourth man joins the next scene. He carries a surgeon’s kit. The bound figure of the creature appears smaller in this scene, more childlike in appearance, though the bonds remain tight.

  In the next vignette, the skilled hand of the artist manages to capture a keen intelligence in the creature’s eyes, the growing unease of the three men standing watch, and the heartsickness of the surgeon at his work. Even restrained against the deck, the creature is imbued with a sense of watchful waiting, hatred rolling from its being in a way that is nearly palpable. Also palpable, even carved, is the fear-stench of sweat from the men. It is a remarkable achievement, and testament to the power of art that it can evoke these sensations for all that it is only lines etched upon dead matter, darkened by ink.

  The scene itself shows the surgeon cutting into the creature’s flesh. The curve of what appears to be a rib bone lies bloody upon the deck. There is a gaping wound in the creature’s side, and yet it unquestionably remains alive.

  In the next scene, the men are surprised at their ghastly work by the captain. His face is livid, brimstone and fire. The creature’s lips show a hint of teeth, either a grimace or a smile.

  Next, the four conspirators are clapped in chains. They stand below the main yard, four sturdy lengths of rope depending from it, the end of each done up in a hangman’s bow. The conspirator’s eyes are downcast, all save the surgeon whose face is raised as if to implore God. The creature, unwounded, stands at the captain’s side, hands unbound. A length of rope tied lightly about the creature’s waist leads to the captain’s hand.

  The final scene upon the tusk shows four men hanging from the main yard, bodies swollen with rot. Beneath this grisly frieze, the captain and the creature stand facing each other, their hands clasped. The creature is dressed, or clothing has been put upon it—a dress such as a modest woman might wear. The creature’s shape once again suggests a shift to the feminine, though it may be the garments providing this illusion. The captain wears a look of rapture. On the part of the creature, no such expression is in evidence.

  6. Substance unknown

  The final piece of scrimshaw resembles the curve of a rib bone. It was found, along with the other pieces, in a canvas sack likely made from sail cloth. The sack was found in a lifeboat evidently cut free from the Henry Charles Morgan and left to drift.

  This last piece in the collection is delicate in size, yet sturdy in nature, harder than most calcium-based bone, yet carved upon nonetheless. It possesses a nacreous quality, its coloring a grey-purple sheen like an oncoming storm. Where lines have been carved into the surface, the bone—if that is what it is—shows silver-white, like the full moon.

  The etching on the final piece is cruder, with none of the artistry of the other pieces, suggesting it might have been rendered by a different hand. It shows the Henry Charles Morgan sailing toward a horizon marked by the curve of the setting sun. Debris, including what appears to be human remains, litter the water in its wake, along with two lifeboats, one carrying three men, the other appearing empty.

  Of the Henry Charles Morgan itself, no further record exists. Both lifeboats eventually reached separate shores, one bearing a lone corpse, the other the canvas sack containing these six pieces of scrimshaw. The ultimate fate of the ship, the remaining crew, and their strange captive or guest, remains unknown.

  Harvest Song, Gathering Song

  Our first night out on the ice, we traded war stories. Reyes, Viader, Kellet, Martinez, Ramone, McMann, and me. We were all career military, all career grunts, none of us with aspirations for command. Captain Adams hand-picked us, brought us to the top of the world—a blue place all ice and snow and screaming wind—with only the vaguest idea of our mission. And none of us had cared. We’d signed on the dotted line, and had ourselves ready at 0500 on the tarmac, as expected.

  The plane had dropped us at a base camp that used to be an Artic research station. We were all too restless for sleep yet, so we sat around the table and the remains of our meal, and talked.

  “Why do you think Adams chose us for the mission? Why us in particular?” Reyes asked.

  “To hell with that,” Viader said. “What is the mission? Does anyone know?” She looked around the table.

  “Extraction?” Martinez shrugged, underlining it as a guess. “We’re here to get something top secret the military wants very badly.”

  “Okay,” Reyes said. “So my questions again. Why us? None of us are anything special.”

  He looked around for confirmation; our silence agreed.

  “My guess?” Kellet leaned back as she spoke, balancing her chair on two legs. “Because we’re all fucked up.”

  When she leaned forward, her chair thumped down hard. The table would have jumped if Martinez and McMann hadn’t been leaning on it. Kellet pointed at me first.

  “You. What’s your story? Syria? Iraq?”

  “I was in Al-Raqqah.” My stomach dropped, but I kept my voice calm.

  “And?” Kellet’s eyes were a challenge, bristling like a guard dog in front of her own pain.

  “I was working an aid station on the edge of a refugee camp, distributing food, medicine, the basics.” Under the table, my palms sweated.

  Kellet leaned forward; Ramone fidgeted. Six pairs of eyes gave me their attention, some hungry, and some looking away in mirrored shame.

  “I was handing a package of diapers to a young mother with a little boy on her hip, and another by the hand. Then the world turned black and red and everything went upside down.”

  I paused; instead of the room, the world flickered briefly, black and red.

  “I was blown off my feet and ended up across the s
treet, but I saw the second supply truck go up in a ball of flame. The first thing that came back was the smell.”

  “Burning hair,” Viader said.

  “Burning skin.” This from Ramone.

  I looked down. Snow ticked against the windows. Wind—cold and sharp as a knife—sighed around the corners of the research station. It sounded like teeth and nails, trying to get in. But I felt heat, the blooming fireball pushing me back, death breathing out and flattening me to the ground.

  “The woman’s legs were gone,” I said. Silence, but for the snow. “But she kept crawling toward her baby, even though there was no way it was still alive. The other kid, her little boy, was vaporized on impact.”

  “You thought about killing her.” Martinez’s voice was soft, the intonation not quite a question. I raised my head, the muscles at the back of my neck aching and putting dull pain into my skull. “Putting her out of her misery?”

  “Yes.” The word left my throat raw. I’d never admitted it out loud; I’d barely admitted it to myself. Until now.

  McMann produced a bottle. I didn’t even look to see what it was before shooting back the measure he poured me and letting him refill my glass. My hands shook; they didn’t stop as I swallowed again and again. The bottle went around, and so did the stories, variations on a theme. An IED tearing apart a market square, a hospital blown to smithereens instead of a military base; a landmine taking out three humanitarian aid workers.

  We lapsed into silence, the answer to Reyes’ question sitting heavy in our stomachs. Adams wanted us because we were broken. Because none of us had anyone at home who would miss us. We were expendable.

  “Is that about right?” Kellet asked, looking over my shoulder.

  I twisted around to see Adams watching us with her arms crossed. Her posture put a physical shape to something I’d been feeling as the stories and bottle went around. The seven of us had fallen into thinking of ourselves as a unit. Adams was outside of that—us against her. We’d follow her, but we didn’t trust her. She’d drawn our pain to the surface; that made her our enemy.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” Adams said, instead of answering.

  There was one chair left against the wall. She dragged it over, turning it backward and sitting with her arms draped over the back, another barrier between us and her.

  “There was a map,” she said. “A soldier in Kandahar sold it to me. He claimed it would lead us to bin Laden, back when we thought he was hiding out in a cave like some desert rat.”

  Adams snorted. Without asking, she reached for the bottle, and drank straight from the neck, killing what remained before setting it down with a heavy thunk. The wind chose that moment to pick up. The walls of the station were solidly-built, but the wind still rattled the door

  “The map was hand-drawn, and we were idiots to follow it. I think my commander only humored me to teach me a lesson.”

  Adams twirled the empty bottle. The noise of the glass rolling against the wood made my skin crawl.

  “A few clicks out from where the cave was supposed to be, our equipment went haywire. Our radios burst out with static, mixed with echoes of conversations from hours and days ago. Our compasses spun, never settling on north.

  “We should have turned back. But there was a cave, right where the map said it would be, and if there was even a chance...” Adams grimaced.

  “Ten of us went in. I was the only one who came out.”

  Adams pulled a small bottle out of her pocket, thick glass, stoppered with a cork. The air around it shivered, humming with the faint sound of wings. I sat forward, and saw the others all around the table do the same thing, a magnetic pull drawing us towards the glass.

  “This is why we’re here,” Adams said.

  I stared at the bottle, filled with honey, viscous and bright. It glowed. Martinez reached out, but Adams’ look stopped him. He dropped his hand into his lap. Adams held the bottle up, turning it so we could watch the honey roll.

  “They found me two days later, half a click from the cave entrance, or where it should have been, except it was gone. I was severely dehydrated, puncture wounds all over my body, half-dead from some kind of venom they couldn’t identify. They got a med-evac copter to pull me out.”

  There was more she wasn’t telling us, knowledge stored up behind her eyes. She honestly didn’t seem to care whether we knew, even if it meant walking blind into the mission she still hadn’t explained. The bottle disappeared, neat as a magic trick. The humming stopped, its absence so sudden my ears popped.

  Adams reached into her pocket again, and I couldn’t help flinching, mirrored by Reyes and Ramone. Instead of a bottle, Adams set her smart phone on the table, a video cued up.

  “I had the honey with me when I came out of the cave. It saved my life.” She didn’t explain. Doubt flickered from Martinez to McMann to me, a spark jumping between us.

  “If I’d been in my right mind, I wouldn’t have told them about it. But.” Adams shrugged, let the word stand. She tapped play.

  The video had been shot on another camera phone, one struggling to decide between focusing on a glass cage or the rat inside it. Thin wires ran from multiple points on the rat’s body.

  “Lowest voltage,” a voice off camera said.

  “This is what happened when the doctors at the military hospital fed a rat the honey.” Adams tone was non-committal, unconcerned. Only the set of her shoulders said different.

  Following the voice was a distinct click like a dial being turned. I imagined the snap of electricity, the scent of ozone popping blue-white in the air. The rat showed no reaction.

  “Next level,” the voice on the phone said. “Sustain it longer this time.”

  Again the thunk of the dial, the ghost of electricity. I felt it shoot up my spine, wrapping around my bones. The rat cleaned its whiskers with its paws.

  “What’s the point of this?” Kellet said. “Why the hell would they feed a rat honey, then electro-shock it?”

  “Because apparently I told them to,” Adams said. She wasn’t looking at the screen. “I told them it was the only way they’d understand.”

  “Maximum voltage.” The camera lost focus briefly, coming back as the dial clicked again.

  The scent of singed fur had to be my imagination.

  “Jesus Christ.” McMann breathed out.

  Adams retrieved the phone as the video ended. She swiped from video to a photo and turned the screen so we could all see. Reyes covered his mouth before the screen angled my way. The rat lay on its side, one of its front limbs missing, the lining of its cage sodden and red.

  “After they unhooked the wires, the rat gnawed its own leg off. It did it so quietly, they didn’t notice until it was already dead.”

  Adams slipped the phone into her pocket.

  “The cave is out there on the ice now. I can see it.” Adams tapped the side of her head. There was no air left in the room; none of us could have questioned her even if we’d dared. “I’m sure it’s obvious why the military has a hard-on for this honey. It’s our job to bring it to them.”

  *

  We set out at dawn. Thermal gear blanked our faces so we might have been the same person repeated eight times, not separate individuals. Spikes on our boots crunched against the ice, a raw sound with crystalline edges. The ice itself groaned, like bones breaking, the vast sound of massive trees cracking deep in a forest.

  Trapped between the padded mask and my skin, my breath rasped. The holes to let it escape clotted with frost, leaving my face clammy. I kept my eyes on Viader ahead of me, and put one foot in front of the other. I was the tail of the party, Adams, the head.

  The sky lightened, a blue so searing my eyes watered even behind the reflective goggles protecting them. Then just as suddenly, clouds rolled in, dark and heavy. Adams led us between two walls of ice, high enough to slice the sky into a thin ribbon and erase everything else. Sheltered from the wind, she called a halt, told us to eat protein bars to keep our strength
up. I unwrapped mine, clumsy with my bulky gloves, lifting my mask just high enough to get the food into my mouth. Even so, the cold stung.

  As I swallowed the last bite, my radio burst out in static. I jumped at the squawk so close to my ear. It was the snow made auditory, a grey-white flurry of noise. Then, in its wake, my grandmother’s voice. And simultaneous with my grandmother’s voice, the storm broke, howling down on us in our trench. Kellet caught my arm, and tugged me into a crouch. The others were doing their best to wedge themselves against angles in the ice.

  I made myself as small as I could, pulling extremities close to the center, conserving heat while my grandmother chattered in my ear. Seven years dead, but her voice was clearer than Kellet’s shouting over the storm. She sang, the way she used to while cooking Sunday dinner. I caught snatches of Slavic fairy tales, the rhythms she’d used to lull me to sleep as a child. As the storm’s fury rose, she called my grandfather’s name in the same high, panicked tone she used in her last days, not seeing the hospital room, but a long-ago village torn apart by war.

  Martinez tapped my shoulder and I almost hit him.

  “Adams says move.”

  My grandmother fell silent. The wind died a little, and I forced my legs from their awkward crouch. We edged forward. The fresh layer of tiny ice pellets skittering over the hard-packed ground made the going even rougher. Despite the spikes in our boots, we slid. The wind pushed at us, and the cold crawled under our clothes. Behind my mask, my teeth chattered.

  “Hold here.” Adams’ voice cut over the storm.

  Instinct made us gather around her in a half circle. The honey appeared in her hand, last night’s magic trick in reverse. Everything else wavered in the dying storm, but it was bright and clear.

  “It’s the only way we’re getting out of here alive,” Adams said.