Deep Blue

by David Niall Wilson

  Brandt tried to back away, pushing so tightly to the bark of the tree he felt as if he might sink within that solid surface and fall away, back to reality—his reality. Nothing doing.

  That spectral face slipped closer, and closer, soft candlelight illuminating too-sharp features. Those eyes, growing and growing, and that mouth, chewing, teeth yellowed and stained by dish after dish and sin after sin. How many years of living alone and drowning in the evil of others, sending them to a peace you could never claim?

  The man was so close now that Brandt could make out thin ribs pressing through the material of a tattered shirt, arms so slender that veins roped his wrists and bones protruded at the elbow. He didn’t stop until his worn boots nearly touched, toe to toe, with Brandt’s own, until his shirt-tail brushed Brandt’s fingers as he played. Until he could lean in and smile so close their eyes could not see beyond the limits of their faces.

  “It’s you, boy. Look hard. Ol’ Wally, he’d like to make you over in this one’s image, bet the farm on it, boy. Your choice.”

  The Sineater stared deep into Brandt’s eyes. He chewed slowly, swallowing the last of the dark in a dead man’s heart. Nothing to wash it down with but fetid breath and eternity.

  Brandt felt his hands shiver. Heard a soft ripple in the song. He fought to control it, realized he knew nothing of the song, his efforts jarring the perfection of the flow. Everything wavered.

  “No,” Brandt whispered.

  The Sineater reached out, gripping Brandt by his shirt-front and dragging him closer, silencing the banjo-blending to guitar, bringing pale, bloodless lips too close to Brandt’s ear.

  As it all faded, as the clearing became the club, overhead lights flashing on bright and hot, the man spoke. “Don’t listen. Cycles. It is all cycles. We will meet . . . before . . .”

  “Before what?” Brandt muttered the words, then screamed them.

  The words faded. Brandt staggered, and for the second time that night, felt strong hands steadying him. This time, there were no harsh words to accompany it. Brandt fought for balance, and with Shaver on one side and Synthia on the other, managed to catch himself before he toppled face-first into the table.

  “Brandt!” Synthia’s voice was too close, too shrill. She slapped him hard, rocking his head to one side, and Brandt staggered again, this time nearly toppling himself and Shaver. “Don’t you go away again, you bastard. Don’t. You. Go. Away.”

  Brandt heard the shiver in her voice, the brittle quality, and it snapped into place. Love. He was loved.

  Turning to the stage, empty now, completely bare. He glared straight past the microphone center stage and whispered, “Fuck you. Not this time.”

  Syn reached out and clutched his shirt, and Brandt pushed away from Shaver gently, leaning into that embrace.

  “Don’t you worry, lady,” he said softly. “Not going anywhere. Ever. Not again.”

  “Where’s the band?” Dexter asked.

  They all spun to stare at the drummer, then the stage. There was no one else in the club. In fact, it was difficult to believe anyone had been in that place in years. Dust coated the tables and floor, and the lamp over their table hung loosely, dangling from a single chain and creaking in the breeze from a poorly-boarded window. The only light was the soft illumination from streetlights, streaming in through the patchwork of planks.

  Dexter’s hands stopped their motion. He glanced down. His fingers were empty. There was nothing on the table but Brandt’s guitar case. No glasses, spilled or otherwise. No spoons. Nothing.

  Brandt shook his head, sweeping his gaze over the table. He couldn’t free his mind of that face, those words.

  “Before what?” he whispered. His gaze fell on the next table, where Liz was sitting quietly. She had a sheet of paper, God only knew where she’d gotten it, and she was scratching furiously at the paper with a pencil, leaning in close to concentrate in the dim light. The sound of the lead scraping across the paper had grown loud, filling the silent room.

  Brandt drew the strap slowly over his head and placed his guitar gently in its case. His gaze never left Liz’s hands. The others had begun to move closer, gathering around her as she worked. Brandt pushed away from the table, gaining his balance and stepped to Synthia’s side, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

  “Who is that?” Syn asked. “Liz, who is that?”

  Brandt leaned in and stared. His arm tightened on Syn’s shoulder, his fingers digging in. She squirmed once, then nudged him with her elbow, hard.

  “That hurts, Brandt. What is wrong with you?”

  Brandt loosened his grip, but he was paying no attention to her words. He leaned closer, letting his hand come to rest on Liz’s, stopping the motion of the pencil gently. The Sineater stared back at him from the paper, true to the last detail, eyes haunted and deep.

  “Who is it?” Synthia repeated, nudging Brandt again.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, “but I just met him. Somewhere. I was playing a banjo, he was . . . eating.”

  “You aren’t making a lick of sense, man,” Dexter commented. “We were all right here,” he swept his arm in a wide circle . . . stopped halfway, confused. “We were all somewhere, man, but it wasn’t with that guy.”

  Brandt nodded. Nothing made sense. “I wasn’t here,” Brandt said simply. “One moment I was playing and staring at that bastard on the stage, and the next, I was somewhere else . . . still playing, just not here.”

  “Whatever, man,” Shaver spat. “Why did you come here?”

  Brandt spun suddenly, releasing Liz’s hand. “Why did you? I don’t fucking know, Shaver. I don’t know why I’ve done a damn thing I’ve done since that night in the club. I just have to do it.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “It hurts.”

  Shaver nodded.

  Brandt turned back to the drawing. Liz had moved her chair away from the table, letting the pencil drop away to the side. The Sineater’s face was trapped in a stray beam of street-lamp illumination. His eyes glared at Brandt, and spoke to him at the same time.

  “Before what?” Brandt asked softly. They stood there a long time, but there was no answer.

  Nine

  Brandt sat still on Liz’s couch, clutching the sketch tightly and staring into those empty, pencil-shaded eyes.

  “Who is he?” Syn leaned in, lifting his hand, and the picture, turning it so she could see.

  “I have no idea,” Brandt said. They both turned to Liz, who was busily following the swirling cream in her coffee in circles with a hollow, empty stare. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the dingy, abandoned bar, despite a barrage of questions from all sides that Shaver had finally stopped by pulling her into a tight hug and glaring the others to silence. If Liz had any idea who the man in the drawing was, she wasn’t telling. Not yet.

  Dexter paced like a caged cat, moving from room to room, picking things up, putting them down, stacking and restacking anything in a quantity of greater than two. Shaver glanced over as the drummer bounced off the frame of the kitchen door, moving toward them.

  “For Christ’s sake, Dex, you think you could slow down?”

  Dexter frowned. “I can’t stay in here forever, man. We have to do something.”

  “Like what?” Syn’s voice cut like acid. “Go for coffee?”

  Brandt stared down at the drawing again. He knew Dex was right. If they didn’t get out of that apartment and start sorting out what had become of their lives, they would end up killing one another out of boredom or some warped strain of Cabin Fever. But what? Where?

  “I don’t know what he meant,” Brandt said. “I don’t know where he meant we would meet, or why. I don’t even know which of them was right. Maybe I am just like that, dragging everyone else’s bullshit into myself.”

  “No.”

  The word was spoken softly, and at first it was difficult to tell who had spoken it. Slowly, the options sifting through their minds, they turned to Liz, who was sitting, gaze still focused
on her coffee, hands trembling, and hot, mocha-creamed liquid threatening to spill over her hands and lap. Synthia rose quickly, moving to Liz’s side and taking the cup gently from her hands.

  “You aren’t anything like him, Brandt,” she continued. “Not at all.”

  Everyone was silent. Even Dexter had moved closer, perching on the arm at one end of the sofa.

  “How do you know?” Brandt asked.

  Liz’s gaze flashed from her coffee to Brandt’s eyes in that second, brimming with tears. She shook her head, sending the droplets of liquid pain dancing through the light, and straightened her back. “He was my grandfather.”

  Silence. Dead air. Dexter plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs and began to drum his fingers gently on the table. Brandt let out a long, slow breath. He traced the edges of the drawing, worn and yellowed from too much handling. He lost himself in those deep, too-hungry eyes.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  More silence, then Liz began to speak slowly. The others had to strain, at first, to pick up the words. Then her voice grew more powerful, her sentences more fluid.

  “I haven’t always lived in cities,” she said. “Where I grew up, the nearest ‘city’ was like a fantasy world, so far out of reach you didn’t so much believe in the reality, but soaked up the dreams. We didn’t follow the trends, or the newest movie star fads. Our life was the church. Baptist, southern and charismatic. We had a mayor, and a city council, but they wouldn’t have done a thing without the say-so of the Minister. The Reverend Forbes, Shane Forbes.”

  Dexter’s fingers drummed a bit more insistently, setting up a rhythm that insinuated itself behind Liz’s words. She fell into sync, caught up now in the grip of suppressed memory released.

  Brandt closed his eyes, setting the drawing aside and wrapping his arms around Synthia tightly. She leaned in, breathing softly against his neck as they listened.

  “I remember the first time I saw him,” Liz said, “and the last. I’ll never forget.”

  The church was backlit by a brilliant, orange sunrise. Elizabeth leaned in close against her mother’s skirt, thinking how pretty it all would be, if it weren’t for the suits, and the dresses, and the veils. Black. All black. It was as if all color had drained from the people of Friendly, California. Even the sun just highlighted the contrast of white church and black-suited men and women.

  Elizabeth had asked her mother what was wrong. She’d asked why Mrs. Porter wasn’t wearing her pretty yellow dress, and why Mr. Klune didn’t have on one of his colorful ties with the big silver clip. Mother had grabbed her by the cheek, an unusual display of quick temper, telling her to shush, and not to ask “unseemly” questions.

  Elizabeth hadn’t said a word since that moment. Her mother never raised her voice, never denied answers to important questions. Something was wrong. Something that had glittered in her mother’s eyes, and shimmered in the slick shine of her father’s black boots as they readied themselves for church. Actions that had been habit all their lives had taken on the aura of ritual. Dressing was an art-form, no room for error, or sloppiness. Every crease was perfect, and neither her mother nor her father had touched a bite of their breakfast. Both had stared at their plates, full and brimming with food, and turned away. Liz had poked at her own food, wondering if there was something wrong with it. Something in the attitudes of her parents removed any appetite she’d awakened with.

  Her mother had worked late into the night, another oddity. The oven had been fired, and there were biscuits, more than they could eat, and a casserole, as well as a pie that lay cooling in the window. Each of these was gathered carefully, packed and bundled for the walk to church. There had been sit-down dinners at church before, but those had been happy occasions. The cooking had been shared, the baking a lesson. Elizabeth watched as her mother packed that food and wondered why it brought no joy.

  Church was a place where Elizabeth was accustomed to feeling a great deal of energy. It wasn’t always focused, but it hummed through the pews and shone from the intricate stained-glass windows. She could feel the emotion ripple through those sitting to either side when the Reverend Forbes spoke, could feel the energy, and the love, when they all raised their voices in song.

  This day that energy was absent. They passed other families, as always, dressed in dark clothing and eyes turned to the dusty ground beneath their feet. No one spoke, at least not to Elizabeth’s parents. Even the other children looked away, though they glanced at her now and then. As they passed the Klunes and their daughter, Chastity, Elizabeth called out gently. Chastity did not answer, though the two of them were only a few feet apart. Chastity had been her best friend for years. The two had been baptized the same day, terrified and trembling in that deep, cold pool, Reverend Forbes towering over them, his eyes flashing and his voice booming out in prayer and song, so loud from where they’d stood that the words warped.

  Nothing had seemed normal in those moments. Elizabeth’s mother had said it was the Holy Spirit moving inside her. Elizabeth had been too young to know what that meant, or if it was true. She remembered being plunged under the water, remembered large hands sliding over her . . . places she’d never been touched, as she was held down. She remembered the quick, leering smile, there, and then gone, lost in loud prayer and Hallelujahs.

  She also remembered Chastity’s eyes. Scared, white, and round like big cut-paper parodies of eyes. Cartoon wide, falling off the cliff and staring up at the Road Runner, rocks crumbling beneath your feet and anvil whistling through the air above your scared eyes. Reverend Forbes’ hand had slid down the back of Chastity’s hair, gripped and drawn her down, gasping, toward the cold water. Again, the words blurred. Again Elizabeth didn’t know what to do, what to think. She had stood in that water, freezing and shaking, eyes wide and needing to pee so bad she had to bite her lip and draw blood to prevent it.

  The overhead lights had been far too bright to allow her to see her parents, or anyone but Reverend Forbes, who was illuminated like some crazed saint, his eyes bright and the expression on his face somehow falling short of righteous. As Chastity disappeared beneath the rippling surface of the baptismal pool, Elizabeth’s gaze had raised. She knew, later, that everyone had thought she was looking to God. She was not.

  Far above the pool, the morning sunlight poured in colored brilliance through a stained-glass depiction of Jesus, kneeling in a field, his own eyes upraised. His hands were clasped before him, and his eyes were elongated, too long and sad to be real, radiating a deep, penetrating sorrow. That sorrow permeated the moment and stained Elizabeth’s mind.

  Chastity broke the surface then, white gown too revealing, eyes wide and terror-stricken, droplets of water catching the brilliant spotlight’s gleam and scattering like crystal shards. Elizabeth risked a glance at the Reverend, who grinned down at her in triumph. That glance pinned her in place, stopped the scream she’d been ready to launch mid-throat and choked her to submissive silence. Chastity was thrashing, struggling to free herself, but he held her for a moment longer, then released before the struggle became obvious, making her motion a clumsy stumble from which he caught her effortlessly, turning to the crowd and booming out his prayers and his Hallelujahs in deep, baritone splendor.

  The girls had been ushered out of the pool, replaced by others, dried, and led to a room where their clothes awaited. The moment the two were alone, Chastity had dived into her arms, sobbing. No words were exchanged. Nothing could eliminate the moments that had passed, or cleanse them of the filthy sensation of his touch.

  They’d dressed and left with their parents, never saying a word. Not to one another, not to their parents. What would they say? He touched me? His hands went . . . there? He was the Reverend, the holy man. He was the representative of God, and the longer the silence prevailed, the more control he stole from their lives, and the more surreal the memory became. Elizabeth avoided Reverend Forbes with a skittish, wide-eyed fear that had annoyed her parents, and embarrassed them more than once. />
  All of this flashed through Elizabeth’s mind as Chastity and her parents passed. That moment, that instant when she realized even the one friend she trusted in the world was not going to smile at her, froze Elizabeth’s heart. Alone. She had never felt so alone. Even when the Reverend Forbes had stroked her and dipped her under that frigid water, holding maybe too long, she’d known Chastity was there, watching.

  They arrived at the church at last to find that there was a tent erected behind the building, open on all sides, but secure from any weather, and the sun. There were rows and rows of flowers, bunched and grouped along the sides of the small cemetery, and a cluster near the center of the tent, surrounding a long, low-slung table.

  Elizabeth’s mother shrugged her off and stepped forward toward that tent, her fingers gripping the food she’d prepared so tightly Elizabeth saw the white of her knuckles. When she’d tried to follow, she’d felt her father’s hand, gentle but firm, on her shoulder. Her mother’s shoulders had shaken visibly, and her steps were erratic and exaggerated. The lump in Elizabeth’s throat threatened to choke the breath from her small frame.

  “Daddy?” she said.

  There was no answer. Her father’s grip tightened on her shoulder.

  “Daddy,” she repeated, “what’s wrong?”

  “Shhhh.”

  Only that. No words. No comfort. Elizabeth bit her lip hard and fought the urge to cry. Her mother had nearly reached the table beneath the tent, which flapped over her head like some great bird of prey. As she disappeared beneath it, it seemed to shallow her. Her mother’s figure looked smaller in that moment, diminished in some unfathomable way by the unbridled tension of the moment.