Something Eternal

by Joel T. McGrath

  Malum peered inquisitively over the edge of the cliff, and soon, one by one, his young followers joined with expressions of wonder and wait. The churning waters settled. From above, all eyes examined the rolling waves for signs of life. However, there were no broken bodies on the rocks, nor floating remains in the water.

  Fizz. Frothy bubbles foamed where the two lovers had fallen into the sea, along with the boulder. An odd and sudden serenity quieted the angry ocean and driving winds. Arrrh, rhrrr, ahrrr. A chorus of seagulls cried as they flew over the fizzy breakers. The sun dipped beneath the gray clouds, parting ocean from sky once more.

  Malum broke the hush. “Now THAT was impressive!” he shouted. “It was dumb, but impressive.” He shook his head and grinned. “It’s not the choice I would’ve made.”

  Vanessa scanned the watery deep intently. “Where’re the bodies?”

  Malum wiped blood from off his nose and chin onto his sackcloth sleeve. “It doesn’t matter. The traitors are dead. I can no longer sense them.” He stared down over the steep cliff. “Besides, no one could’ve survived that fall, mortal or immortal alike.”

  “What about the castle?” Vanessa fluffed her long, frosted blonde tips, and stuck her hands out, spreading her fingers. “I chipped a nail!” She pouted.

  “Yes, well, your nail aside, now we’ll need more resources to invade the castle.” Malum ran his index finger down the scar above his glass eye, from the top of his left eyebrow to the bottom of his cheekbone. “I suppose we’ll need a larger army to topple those walls.” He held his elbow and tapped his fingers to his cheekbone. “Now where am I going to find a mindless, unending army these days?” He shifted his eye heavenward. “Ah, yes, I know. In the catacombs under the city streets of Paris, that’s where I’ll find my horde. Come, we have work to do.”

  Malum dismissed his young followers and they obediently marched back into the forest. They vanished into the dense woods. Malum glanced over his shoulder one last time toward the sea. The sun vanished below the skyline. Its final rays beamed across the seascape. The gray enflamed as dusk fell, casting deep scarlet hues upon the water. Softly and slowly, fragments of light faded until the landscape sheathed in darkness, and Malum continued into the murky glen.

  It was late, in the early, dark hours before the approaching dawn. The once lively crowd had lulled. Most of the partygoers had left the club on the lower east side of Paris for the night. Others had fallen asleep wherever they could rest their weary heads.

  The band played a song, a last call for the night, as workers swept the floors, preparing to close for the coming day. The trumpeter blew loud notes with quick, lively action, his cheeks ballooning red, his fingers nimbly pressing the valves, purposely waking the sleeping heads, rousing them to go home.

  Of the handful of patrons remaining, one young man in particular had left his napping girlfriend inside before he staggered out into the cool, dark street to clear his dizzy head. With a few deep breaths of briskly chilled air, the young man gradually stirred from his woozy nap. He looked up at the dark sky. What was sunny and warm when he last recalled, was now black and unusually cool for this time of year.

  He watched his breath crystallize upward, mixing with the air, forming clouds of fleeting vapor and misty frost. He robotically glanced behind his shoulder as the club powered down the lights out in front on the street where he stood. The bulbs, too bright to stare at, in chorus dimmed until their electric spirit drained out. Yet still, the music blared throughout the club, filtering onto the mostly abandoned, and ever now, darker city lane.

  A worker closed the front side windows to the club, muffling the loud trumpeter’s horn. No longer feeling the warmth from inside, the young man huddled his shoulders, flipped the collar of his jacket up against his neck. He covered his skin from the cold, along with a black and red scorpion tattoo, which stretched under his earlobe down five inches.

  He vigorously rubbed his hands together, blowing, sucking in, and puffing breaths into them. He peeked in through the windows, between the chipped paint, through the frosty panes at his girlfriend. The back of her head remained unmoved on the tabletop, so he turned and wildly shivered. He turned away as the cool air chilled his bones.

  Across from the club, past the broad, dark empty road, in the shadows of a long narrow street between buildings, the young man saw a pile of trash move without cause.

  He peeked through the club’s window at his girlfriend, before crossing the street to investigate. He neared the rustling trash pile and slunk cautiously. He paused stiffly whenever the pile frantically shook. Curiosity inched him onward. Balancing tiptoed, he stretched to catch a glimpse over the shifting heap of rubbish.

  Layered bags concealed what was beyond. He quietly shuffled his feet closer. The murky night, along with the shadows cast by the alley, made it nearly impossible to see. Yet behind the bags of trash, something lurked in the hidden, dark recesses.

  An ominous, pungent rot infected his nostrils. He gagged and became uneasily weak. Covering his nose, he looked back at the club. It was now farther away than he realized.

  Closer he quietly shuffled his feet. The murky night, along with the shadows cast by the alley, made it nearly impossible to see, but something slouched and recessed in the dark corner on the other side of the garbage bags.

  As he considered retreating, a mass of clouds parted and showered down beams of moonlight. Scattered lines of ghostly rays lit the alley. The haunted glint illuminated a sight so foul, he suddenly braced. Grim fear halted his breath.

  A grotesque, clumsy, diseased-looking creature feasted on rancid waste with its back facing the young man. Spiny, finned vertebrae protruded from the beast’s back. Grayish green, waxy secretion covered its glossy skin, giving the beast an oily appearance. Its joints had branched, bony growths with fluid-filled sacks. The creature was totally bare, except for a single, tattered loincloth.

  When the moonlight parted the darkness, a thin sliver gleamed, slanting a pale bar across the beast’s eyes. They were large, black, reflective saucers, dead as coal, and devoid of emotion. The young man saw his perfect reflection in the creature’s dark, lifeless globes as its eyes dilated into a black horror. The unworldly beast held a stare at the young man, each sizing up the other. The young man’s eyes widened as the creature’s black orbs narrowed. One was prey, the other was a predator, and for a brief moment, each knew what the other one was thinking.

  The creature growled and snorted warm puffs, which drifted upward into smoky clouds of wrath. And with a low pitch, its body angled, it sprung backward into a bestial, pouncing position. The young man panted heavily, refusing to blink or look away. Time slowed. Each subtle movement amplified a hundredfold in the tense alleyway standoff. When the beastly creature growled again, the young man leaned away in nervous expectation.

  He stumbled.

  His feet tangled, but he remained upright, never taking his eyes off the beast. Rather, he collected his calm. And like a runner, on the eve of mark, he prepared all of his muscles to take flight. However, when the monster spoke words to him, he recoiled backward, straight-legged, his body jerked off the ground, and his color blanched, draining him until only the hue of terror remained. Insensible will spun him around. But pure adrenaline propelled his rush toward the club.

  The boisterous music continued loudly. He could hear the music and see people through the windows, sweeping, stacking chairs, and playing instruments. Most of all, he saw his girlfriend. She was still asleep. Her head flat on the table. Her face turned away from him.

  At first, he could only hear his heartbeat. It raced fearfully. Without reason, his breaths labored. Then a menacing voice from behind called out. He resisted the urge to look back. He kept both eyes fixed on the club. He had to make it back to her. He had no choice, nor doubt he would make the short distance from the alley to the club, because only a few good strides and a street separated them
.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The creature soared like a puma with speed and power well beyond that of any human, but spoke like a person.

  The young man ran from the alley.

  His heart thumped rapidly, it seemed ready to explode. He felt the beast’s snout huffing moist, foul breath down the back of his neck. Still, a fleeting smile crossed the young man’s face. He had made it out of the alley and into the street. The creature, right behind, pinged from one building wall to another until it bounded down on top of the young man’s back. It tackled him to the ground.

  “Aaah!” the young man screamed out. The band played a long, last note louder to wake the few remaining patrons before the club’s close. “Help me!” he said, face down, and on his stomach. He reached toward the club where his girlfriend stirred from her slumber. She stretched and yawned, pulling her head from off the table. She looked from side to side and around the club for her boyfriend, but she did not see him, so she sat and waited.

  The creature stood on top of his back with heaviness. With four feet, it trampled on top of him. The beast constricted his breaths, and made simple movements impossible. Nevertheless, the young man slowly propped one elbow up and then awkwardly he braced the other. He struggled, crawling toward the club on his belly. Puzzled, the beast simply hopped off and dragged him by the ankle back toward the dark alley. The young man screamed. He flailed his legs, and frantically clawed at the cold street, grinding his fingernails against the abrasive ground.

  The beast let forth a disgruntled growl. It raised a hand up and rapidly plunged icy hooks into the young man’s soft flesh. The beast tamed the young man. It sank penetrating claws deep into the muscle fibers around his spine. The young man rang out a shrill cry, followed by a chilling shriek. From his back, a gush of red fluid oozed. With the last of his strength, the young man ripped his leg from the beast’s hand and freed himself. He shouted toward the club. His voice hoarse, it strained from yelling. His vocal cords filled with his own blood. He needed someone to see him. He crawled on his belly. He hoped to be seen. His body was already broken, but now he had lost his spirit, too.

  The creature ground its jaw full of sharp fangs back and forth. It seethed at the young man’s resilience. The beast aggressively thrust another hand of razor-tipped, black talons into the young man’s back. This time, with a more violent, cruel push, it twisted its claws.

  The young man convulsed, his body jerking uncontrollably.

  A snap echoed from his spinal column.

  The young man’s head and limbs flopped down.

  His body lay broken and shattered. His skin took on a blanched paleness, but his eyes remained open, blankly staring not at, but through the club. The beast pulled him by the leg back into the alley, leaving a wide trail of bright, freshly smeared blood. Like a forgotten memory, both the young man and the beast disappeared into the night. His girlfriend crossed her arms and huffed. She waited and looked around from her seat. And the trumpeter’s cheeks eased as the last note tempered into sweet silence.

  Later the next day, and just blocks away from the beastly attack near the

  club, Emma Rose was browsing some of the finest boutiques Paris, France, had to offer. She clamped her teeth, grinding them, while glaring at her mother.

  A few months prior, Emma adored every thought about her first trip to Paris, telling her envious friends in Viola, Kansas, all of the wonderful things she was going to do while there. Now, here she was. This was the vacation city of her dreams, yet the same could not be said about her unwanted travel companion. Maybe some daughters enjoyed going on vacation with their mothers, but not Emma.

  This, after all, was the city of lights. Love abounded, and beautiful couples made romantic gestures to each other on almost every street corner, or so Emma had seen on television. However, she…she felt like her mother’s handbag from last season, clutched too tightly, worn out, and filled to the brim with needless things.

  This was supposed to be her trip of a lifetime, not her mother’s. Instead, she felt like her mother’s clone. This was her coming of age experience, but it had turned into her mother’s second go around as a teen instead. Emma was tired of her mother dragging her around the city. She felt smothered, never free, it seemed, to do what she wanted to do. And after two weeks of doing nothing, except what her mother wanted to do, it was time to return home in the morning from her frustrating vacation. So, with every look, Emma glared, with every word, she groaned, and with each thought, she dreaded with obsession the string of lies she’d have to tell her friends about her amazing trip to Paris.

  Emma’s mother hooked her arm inside of her own, attempting to lock them like chains. Her mother sipped her latte, hauling Emma down past the boutiques. “Oh, here, I want to take a picture.” Her mother pulled out her phone, leaned up against Emma, and snapped a picture of them. Emma squinted and frowned. Her mother attempted to smile. “Oh, will you look at that.”

  “What?” Emma asked. She pouted. “I’m sure it’s like a postcard or something,” she said, glancing up and down the old Parisian street. Quaint park benches, manicured trees, and classic, seventeenth-century merchant shops filled the avenue. “I mean…we are in Paris,” her voice carried notable irritation.

  “Huh?” Her mother’s attention diverted. “Oh, no, would you look at that!”

  Emma pawed at the camera to see. “It looks great.” She raised one eyebrow over the other.

  “No, it doesn’t. My chin looks terrible. My face is puffy.” She felt around her cheeks. “And my nose looks fat. My cheeks…I had all of this work done and…uh, well, these cameras take the worst pictures. It’s like going to the DMV.” Her mother tossed her camera phone back into her purse.

  With a squint of disgust, Emma reclaimed her arm. She frowned and mumbled under her breath, while the two window-shopped the latest trends of the season.

  Emma looked up at her mother, and then at a reflection of herself. Emma was sick of everyone back home saying her mother used to look exactly like she does at her age now.

  Her mother attempted to smile again. Emma sighed, shaking her head, staring, but not into the tiny boutique window on the bustling, overcrowded side street. She stared at her mother and herself in the window, swearing privately she would never turn into the woman standing next to her.

  Emma pulled a piece of gum from her pocket. She methodically unwrapped the folded squares of paper. She then popped the gum in her mouth and watched all the beautiful people zip past them. She chewed the gum loudly, blowing bubbles, while wishing she could just stay there in that city forever, yet with mother not included.

  Emma popped the gum repeatedly. She chewed and chomped, at first slowly, but then faster as her mother prattled on about the dismal details of her own disappointed life. She only stopped talking to occasionally glance at Emma for approval about the dress that she herself admired in the window. Her mother frowned, quickly whipping her phone out every few seconds, while scanning the street from side to side. Emma lazily blew large, pink bubblegum bubbles, popping them over again.

  “Spit it out now!”

  “Spit what out?”

  “The gum, missy,” her mother quickly searched for a napkin from her overcrowded purse. “It’s unladylike.”

  Emma tightened her lips and rolled her eyes. “Um, whatever.” She knew all too well about the first unspoken rule between mothers and daughters—mothers resent their daughters belonging to a certain age, and daughters hate their mothers for trying to live their teens all over again. Nevertheless, this remained unspoken, so she reached into her mouth and smeared the gum on the white napkin her mother held in front of her. “Happy now?” She crinkled her nose, protruded her lower lip, and tapered her eyes until they were resentful slits.

  Her mother anxiously held an attempted smile. “Honey, you don’t want these fine people thinking that you’re uncouth.”

&n
bsp; “Why? It’s not like I’m ever going to see them again anyway.” Emma waited a moment. She crossed her arms, darting her resentful slits toward her mother. “Who are you trying to impress? I’ve seen you do lots worse…”

  Her mother cut into Emma’s sentence, diverting the conversation to more pleasant things. “I refuse to argue with you,” she said, then abruptly changing tones, her mother tapped her raised chin with her index finger, before eagerly continuing, “Now what about that dress? Isn’t it so rad? I think it would look cool on you. I’m getting you that dress.” She pulled Emma by the hand and dragged her into the boutique. “You’re going to try on that dress. I want to see how it fits.”

  After an eternity in the dressing room, Emma stomped out, wearing the dress, along with a smug grimace and furrowed brows.

  “Okay, twirl around. I love it!” Her mother gave a short-handed, quiet clap. “I bet all of your friends back home will be jealous when they see,” her mother said, smiling enviously, that is, until she noticed Emma had not even tried to put on the matching high heels, but rather, was still in her plaid socks and brightly colored, permanent marker patched sneakers.

  Emma halfheartedly twirled. She bobbed her head from side to side. She kicked out her feet and hummed a tune. “La-tee-da. La-tee-da.” She made every effort to rile her mother while in the boutique. “There, I’m done.” She tossed her hands in the air. “This is totally stupid.”

  People looked. The shopkeeper tightened his once cheery expression into annoyance.

  Emma’s mother drew her legs together and placed her purse on her lap, with a tense smile and unnaturally straight posture, she uneasily caught eyes with the shopkeeper. Her smile froze and faded. She gently raised her finger in protest as if she were at a PTA meeting, but Emma kept loudly ranting about all things she currently hated.

  “I don’t want this dress!” Emma stomped. “Besides, my friends don’t care about the junk you care about. They don’t!” She pointed straight at her mother. “I’m in Paris and they’re not.” Emma told anyone listening before she trudged toward the dressing room, wishing to change back into her comfortable jeans and shirt, while her rant continued from behind the curtain’s veil. “My friends don’t care about some crappy dress, please!” She slid the fine dress to the floor, not even hanging it. Emma carelessly emerged, forcefully pushing back the curtain, its metal rings scratching against the steel rod above the changing booth.