by David Herter
You look past him to the islands.
“It’s not often that Ragnar and I agree.” His voice becomes gentle. “But in this case, Ballou, he is right. The label didn’t read Doc Genius, alas. Domoic acid genus, however, comes from the hand of a doctor, and its composition is due to genius, that’s certain. A neurotoxin from the algae bloom, tweaked by me from the diatom Pseudo-nitzschia lupus,” His smile is gentle, too. “We must change Wilson into a beast who walks on all fours.”
A shearwater circles, its chittering thrum more like an insect’s than a bird’s.
The Doctor’s cold hand rests on your shoulder. “You won’t be going back to the House of 31 Sparrow Lane, Ballou. You realize that, don’t you?”
Beneath your feet, you feel a thud. A roar, as of the ghost-pig writhing in its chains.
It’s Wilson.
* * *
When you stand up, the Doctor’s hand dissolves into a rush of wings: a third shearwater, and a fourth.
Below, on the luminous screen, inhuman faces peer out of jungle fronds, against which the shearwaters sketch their shadows by the dozens. To your right, one of the islands is closer than ever before, called forth by the shrieking birds.
You stumble, chased along the deck. On all sides is the sea, until you collapse at the edge and look over.
Something rustles the tall grass. The ghost pig disappears in the rush of shearwaters, and Wilson crawls after. Its tracks become his own. On hands and knees, he shakes all over like some four-legged animal, arms buckling, and collapses on his side.
* * *
The grass shivers across the beast man but it’s just a mound of pelt and clothes and it doesn’t budge.
* * *
Your comic book lies on the carpet, along with the Centurions and Wilson’s coffee cup, over a dark stain.
Until it walks into the mouth of the cup, the tarantula is almost too dark to notice.
Mom lies sprawled in the console chair, her sleeve tugged up above her elbow, her arm dangling like she’s waiting for someone to lift her hand and kiss it. Approaching, you almost step on the syringe.
“Mom?”
You can’t find her face for her hair. The smell of her perfume is wrong.
You squint against the silver light, where shadows flitting past are the shearwaters and the air is silent.
Everything is wrong.
Spittle clings to her parted lips. When you move the hair with a shaking hand, you pull back, gasping.
The bird fixes you with a single, gummy eye.
Wings fluttering in an attempt to fly free.
* * *
And if you’re a boy with a wide imagination who hikes the beach at Capitola for miles on winter days, hikes until the promontory marking home is a speck you can hide behind your outstretched hand, then you’ll find the beach at Pelican Bay too narrow, too constricted by headlands and the high tide, and wild with birds, facing the dark ocean and the towers.
You sense the pig at your side, the fire of its eyes swinging left and right and left, lighting the sand and the wings of silent shearwaters and gulls—ghosts of birds darting past and around, and past once more.
Ho, Ballou. Ho, Ballou. The tide is black and mounted with white froth, out to the islands that crowd offshore. Your shoes strike the water. Waves rush cold up your calves, seek to pull you in.
Ho, Ballou. Ho, Ballou.
The Doctor is out there. Ragnar, too. They’re together. They’ll always be together because they always come back. The thought is strangely hopeful. I can swim there, you think, while the tide froths cold and hard, sweeping past, seeking to start you on your way. I can reach it.
Time is tide and the beating of …
You taste iron.
… of a heart, Ballou. And if you were to wade into that tide and swim away, swim in any direction …
Hot warmth courses down your nostril.
You fall to your knees, the water breaking across your lap.
I can swim there.
Water slack and silver with a diffuse light. The green-and-silver surface becoming clear, like a mirror, dotted now with one, with two, red blooms. Red blooms like those the Doctor had lifted from the jar with his deathly-white hand.
Joined by a third, as the blood strikes the water before being swept away.
* * *
He sits in the sand for many hours before they find him.
To Gene Wolfe
About the Author
David Herter lives in Seattle, Washington. You can sign up for email update here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by David Herter
Art copyright © 2015 by Wesley Allsbrook
