Spirit of the Sea

by Keith Walter

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he replied, squeezing tighter. He could feel Grace rise higher off the ground, and his own feet now dangling freely. It was his idea, but he was honestly surprised it was working. He opened his eyes to stare at the world above. The anchor on his chest was beginning to glow red as it was infused with his power. The glow quickly became the only thing visible, as bubbles of steam surrounded his body. Just a little more, he thought.

  “And don’t look down,” Grace added in his ear.

  “What?” he asked in confusion. His eyes immediately betrayed her request, dropping to the white tile below. Only there wasn’t any tile, just a gray mouth. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled as he pulled his knees up to his waist. “What is that?” But staring into the abyss, he already knew the answer. If life was above, then the opposite must be beneath.

  Grace squeezed tighter, glad to feel them both rise up, now halfway to the water. For a moment, they picked up speed, but a tug began in her arms. Where before Charles had felt like a feather, she now slowly felt his weight increase. “What’s happening?”

  Charles felt it, too. Like a black hole, the abyss pulled at him. He tried to lift his legs up, to wrap them around Grace, but he simply didn’t have the strength. Slowly, against his will, his feet were pulled lower and lower until he was fully stretched out. He felt Grace cease her rise, unable to overcome his weight. Panic overtook his mind as he felt Grace ever so slightly get pulled down. “Shit…shit!” he yelled as he buried his face in her neck.

  “I’m not letting go,” Grace said, more to herself than Charles. She felt it, too, the slow-but-steady drop. But it didn’t matter, not anymore. She’d died with him once before. This would be no different.

  “Definitely don’t,” Charles replied quickly. He tried to push more magic into Grace, to give her more buoyancy. But it wasn’t enough. Seconds, minutes, perhaps hours passed, and they were being dragged down. He knew the moment his toes touched the abyss.

  “Charles!” Grace screamed as a massive pull yanked the man from her arms. She managed to snag his right hand as he was pulled away, barely holding on.

  Charles couldn’t feel anything below his waist. He squeezed Grace’s hand with everything he had and stared at the angelic vision of her face. He could see the determination in her eyes, eyes that now seemed to glow with power. “I’m not letting go,” he offered softly. But he was still sinking and his strength was quickly fading. With his last ounce of will, he pushed the rest of his magic. “Everything I am is yours.”

  “No!” she screamed. But there was nothing she could do. She felt the final jolt of heat as Charles gave her the last of his strength. He continued to hold, just as he said, but his hands were cold. Another tremendous pull from below ripped him from her. She watched in horror as his smile disappeared into the abyss.

  Charles watched the vision of Grace freeze as the abyss rose up around him. Fear and pain etched into her perfect face made his heart ache. Hours seemed to pass as he fell deeper and deeper, all the while the picture of Grace stood motionless above. The abyss was silent. Gray wisps like the beginning of a storm filled the air as far as the eye could see. Grace hung in the sky like the sun, the only color to be found in this desolate place. Charles was surprised when something solid met his back. He didn’t hit so much as bump. He brought his arms back and found the abyss did have dimensions.

  Pulling himself to a seat, he managed to look around. The abyss had a floor of sorts. No tile like above, no ridges or texture. The ground was perfectly smooth. It was cool to the touch, though not unpleasant—like a stone counter. There were no imperfections or discolorations; the ground was the same color at every point, like a frozen lake before the snow.

  He stared into the sky, acutely aware of Grace still staring down from above. He wondered if this was it. Even if he had felt the relief of forgiveness, there was no denying a just afterlife would require recompense. As he continued to watch Grace, he realized just how terrible nothing could be. To be here, alone, for all eternity, with nothing but the tearful face of his love as entertainment; it was already becoming unbearable.

  But he wasn’t alone. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he was sure someone—perhaps many someones—were behind. Dread clouded his mind, but he refused to run. How many people had died by his hands? How many had waited to claim revenge? Taking a deep breath, he took one last look at Grace. Warmth filled his chest as his love swelled, giving him courage. He would face his demons, his accusers, and forgive them anything they suffered upon his soul.

  Turning, Charles held his arms out in welcome. He couldn’t make them out at first, just gray wisps of smoke. Gradually the clouds took form, hundreds at a time. In seconds, Charles recognized the faces of the men and women from that fateful night under the moon. This was it, he realized, the moment he’d dreaded since he woke up forty years ago. No one moved, as they seemed to be waiting for a sign.

  Charles reached back to his memories, to the disgust in Barclay’s voice as the captain ordered him away. Dropping his left arm to his side, he raised his right forearm horizontally in the classic salute. He slammed his arm into his chest, the sound reverberating through the abyss. It was the only action he could think to do. “Thank you all.”

  He didn’t know what to expect, but the crowd parted. A tall figure moved forward, standing at the head of an army of thousands. Charles couldn’t make out who it was, the figure still half smoke, but he could see one arm raise and slam into the figure’s torso. As one, the rest of the assembled souls followed, saluting their once and ever general. Tears sprouted from Charles’s eyes. He could feel the gratitude, something he’d never dreamed. But then, isn’t that exactly what the captain had said?

  “You still have promises to keep.”

  Charles heard the words from all directions, a whisper across the abyss. It was a single voice, a voice he would recognize anywhere. “Alastair?” he whispered with cautious hope.

  The wispy man in front took shape. He was tall and thin, though his lithe walk forward spoke to a wiry strength. His eyes were closed as he covered the distance between Charles and the assembled converts. When he was a few steps away, he opened his eyes, revealing a brilliant green.

  Charles took a step back, feeling nearly assaulted by color in this otherwise dreary world. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I promised… I promised so much more. I failed you.” He looked around at the men and women behind his friend. “I failed all of you.”

  Alastair stepped forward again, getting close enough to tower over the shorter man. “You failed,” he repeated, “because you were on your own. You forgot us, forgot what we meant.”

  “No,” Charles denied, “I never forgot!”

  Alastair reached out a fist slowly, touching his knuckles to Charles’s cheek. “We have always pushed you forward. You forgot that.” He pointed to the sky, where Grace still shone like the sun. “You let us drag you down.”

  Charles leaned into the knuckles, accepting the truth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Do not be sorry,” Alastair reprimanded sharply. His face relaxed and he pulled back his fist. “Be better.”

  “How?” Charles asked. “It’s too late.”

  “For us,” Alistair whispered. “But you are not yet tied to this place.” He smiled and closed his eyes. Ten thousand soldiers walked forward, surrounding the pair. Charles tensed, but Alastair just continued to smile. “There is only one magic more powerful than death.” He glanced up at Grace before continuing. “I think you finally know it.”

  Alastair knelt down and his fist began to glow green. As the glow stabilized, he stood and opened his hand. “We didn’t die for honor or duty. We gave our lives for what we loved. Learn from us. Be better.” Holding his glowing hand up, Alastair used his other to grab Charles around the waist.

  The soldiers charged in. But instead of trampling the pair, they grabbed and lifted. The swarms of men and women crawled up and over one another, a
ll the while lifting Charles and Alastair to the highest point. In seconds, the mountain of souls had lifted the pair halfway to Grace.

  Charles could see himself getting closer and closer to his sun. Alastair kept his green hand up and Charles pinned to his side. As they approached, Charles could see the edges of the hole to the in-between begin to scab over and move in. The hole was closing faster than the mountain of souls could climb.

  Alastair saw it, too. “Two of you entered that place, but only one can leave,” he stated. He motioned to the nearest souls and they each grabbed one foot before throwing the pair into the sky. It was a mighty throw, but Charles could tell it wouldn’t be enough to reach the top. Alastair lifted Charles by one arm so they could be face to face. Twisting in the air the spirit smiled and cocked back his glowing green hand. “You must understand.” With the sound of a lightning strike, Alastair slammed his open palm into Charles’s chest.

  For a moment Charles was a god once again, and could feel the power of every soul below coursing through his body. The feeling passed quickly as he realized what needed to be done. Smiling, he saw his friend fall back to the mountain of soldiers. Suddenly, soft hands wrapped around Charles’s chest and he saw white tiles form over the mouth of the abyss. “Thank you,” he whispered to the void.

  “Charles!” Grace screamed in his ear. “What just happened?”

  “I got some sense knocked into me,” he answered with a smile.

  “I think…I think I heard someone else,” she whispered in awe.

  Charles squirmed around in her arms until he was facing her. He wrapped his arms around in return. “What did they say?”

  “It was a man,” she began. “He told me to take care of you.”

  “Alastair,” he breathed out, “still looking after me even now.”

  Grace smiled, but confusion overtook her face. “You’re back.” She paused, waiting for him to catch on. “But we still aren’t moving.”

  Charles looked around, and she was right. Though back in each other’s embrace, the pair was suspended halfway between the water above and tile below. Charles closed his eyes and let go with his left arm. He brought it to his chest where Alastair had hit him. When he pulled his hand away, it glowed the same green as Alastair’s hand.

  “Alastair told me something, too,” Charles whispered. He stared into Grace’s eyes. “Only one can leave here.”

  “You said you wouldn’t let go!” Grace screamed. “You come back just to tell me you’re giving up?” A kiss cut her words short

  “No,” Charles whispered. “True love isn’t giving up everything for someone. True love is becoming one.” Charles’s hand laid on Grace’s chest, “I will be your heart, and you my soul. One. Only one, forever after.”

  White hot light erupted throughout the void, illuminating even the world above.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:

  The Love That Binds Us

  Barclay called wave after wave from the lake, trying to soak and delay the general. The noble was done playing games, letting a shield of heat evaporate every incoming attack. Serin and Leslie lay exhausted, their combined attack having been designed to use everything they had in a single blow. The old sailor rushed forward, attempting to physically attack the general, only to be swatted backward like an insect. His body actually bounced off the sand and he rolled to a groaning stop.

  Moments later, he caught sight of the converts running out of the trees to the shore. Union soldiers emerged from behind, inevitably looking to corral the fleeing masses. Barclay bit his lip. He wanted to blame Serin and Leslie for staying behind, but he couldn’t fault them for doing exactly what he had. He wanted to curse the Union and everything it had done, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He simply rolled enough to sit up, taking deep breaths despite the bruising on his chest, and stared down the general.

  “Such creatures can never see the inevitable.” Kenewath started, talking to himself. “They cling to hope or faith to make their tiny lives seem significant.” He took a cleansing breath and puffed out his chest. “It is the duty of the strong to trim the tree of these falsehoods to prevent rot.” Branches grew from the ground, wrapping themselves around Barclay’s hands and feet, then lifting him into the air. Serin and Leslie followed. A wall of branches sprang up around the converts, forcing them into a neat cage.

  Barclay was several feet above the ground when the branches pulled tight, so tight it felt like they were trying to tear him apart. He heard the muffled grunts of the two girls and knew they felt the same. Attempting to clear his hazy vision, he caught sight of the Entregon, in all her horror, offshore. He could see the soldiers encircle the group with their weapons drawn.

  “Let the trimming commence,” Kenewath uttered, waving a hand in the air. The branches began to pull harder.

  Barclay wasn’t sure how long the pain lasted. His joints cracked from the force, then suddenly the branches slackened. The earth itself seemed to tremble with rage. He saw the soldiers spin to the shore. Even the general was distracted, his hand frozen in mid-turn. The branches negated any magic Barclay could sense. But with each tremor, he knew that something was drawing near.

  “Stations,” Kenewath yelled. He turned to the Entregon, addressing it across the water. “A widespread bombardment, if you please.”

  The black ship’s small guns erupted with smoke and fire. Impacts at the end of the beach threw water high into the air. Several yards off shore, just where the water dropped off to greater depths, a tiny piece of metal emerged. The bombardment continued, but the drab metal continued moving slowly to the shore. The Entregon hit it directly, shattering what little could be seen. As if on cue, a larger piece emerged to take its place. A full minute passed as the thing grew from the lake, larger and larger.

  The broken end of a luxury cruise liner flopped over the drop-off. It looked like it had been on the bottom for decades. Once-shining paint was dull and scorched. It reminded Barlcay of something delicate, as if it had shattered and someone was picking up the pieces. Volley after volley of cannon fire opened more holes in the battered ship. Still, the derelict wreck moved toward the shore.

  Only when the shake of a cannon blast knocked mud from the rear did Barclay catch the name inscribed on the hull. “Grace,” he whispered in awe. As she moved, beaching herself farther and farther up the sand, he noticed the chain from her rear angling under the water. It took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t moving on her own, but being pulled.

  A wave of power erupted as the end of Grace’s chain emerged from the water. Wind howled and trees swayed as the release disrupted the air around them. They were reminded of Alignak’s awakening, but unlike the raw anger of that monster, this power felt like a warm summer breeze. The Entregon doubled her efforts, but the impacts began to do less and less. Slowly, almost imperceptible, the paint on Grace began to brighten. The ship rocked back and forth as it beached itself. With each shake, mud and rust fell like rain. Familiar honeycomb shields sprang to life and intercepted the Entregon’s attacks. Finally, a figure emerged from the water carrying a great, golden anchor over its shoulder.

  Commotion drew Kenewath’s attention behind. The soldiers had begun to inch backward, but he wouldn’t allow it. “Formation,” he yelled, loud enough to make his voice crack. Trees grew behind the soldiers preventing their retreat. “Any fey abandoning their post will be sentenced as a traitor.” The threat worked, even when the figure began moving in their direction.

  The chain connecting Grace’s anchor to her body broke, and the figure on shore began a new march toward the soldiers and captives. The Entregon’s guns tore through the beach, and everything was lost in the chaos. Sand cleared and the creature picked itself off the ground, pulled the anchor over its shoulder, and continued. The warship switched from cannons to magical attacks. Despite the slow movement, the assaults seemed to miss or deflect off honeycomb shields. Occasionally, a blast would get through and the progress would falter.

  As the thing got
closer, Barclay could see the tattered clothes covering what was left of its body. Scorched flesh and the bright white of bones showed in various places. The Entregon relented, the figure now too close to the general to continue firing.

  “Engage,” Kenewath yelled in frustration. The soldiers attacked, their enchanted bullets and energy weapons streaming forward. Most of the attacks seems to fizzle out or deflect before reaching the creature, just like the Entregon’s cannons. Those that didn’t miss opened new wounds. Still, it continued to march.

  Examining it closely, Barclay could see that those new cuts seemed to heal or regenerate just as quickly as they appeared. A sudden blast to the thing’s chest opened a tear, and soft blue light shone from within. Barclay squinted before the wound closed. Where the thing’s heart should have been was a glowing metal ball. When the creature reached the front line of soldiers, who parted out of fear, the regeneration was fast outpacing the injuries. Clothes began to knit themselves across the creature’s body. The bloody skull on top morphed into Charles’s rugged features.

  ◆◆◆

  Charles still didn’t understand what had happened. Not when he woke up on the bottom of the lake, not when he could hear Grace in his head under that anchor, and not when he marched her to shore. Grace was equally confused, and her thoughts ran through is mind in a cacophony. It wasn’t until he was nearly out of the water that he figured out how to push her voice down to a normal level. That was only the first step.

  He could feel strength surge through his body, more than he dared attempt in these last forty years. Whatever this power was, it wasn’t fully under his control. Instead of ordering his magic to do his bidding, it was more of a request. Instead of an immediate reaction, he felt Grace ask why. The power was in his body, but Grace was in control. Fumbling across the beach, he remembered his time in Detroit, watching a neighbor’s child drive a tiny car with a remote. When the Entregon shot at him, it hurt—a lot. But already Grace was working. She used the magic as if it was entirely her own, forcing his body to cast her shield spells. It mostly worked, but she noted it felt like trying to get a doll to perform gymnastics.