[Anthology] The Paranormal 13- now With a Bonus 14th Novel!

by Dima Zales

  Elandria returned the soup to the nightstand. She took some of the fabric of her dress into her hands and began to squeeze it anxiously. She considered Trevain’s words and wondered if she should have gone to Adlivun instead of her sisters. Waiting and not knowing was very difficult; it was paralyzing.

  “Why did he drink so much? Why didn’t he give himself more credit? Why did he have to be such a damned fool? It should have been me. It should have been me instead.”

  Standing up abruptly, Elandria walked to the window of Trevain’s room. She parted the curtain and gazed out at the serene view of the ocean. Trevain continued to mumble to himself in bed, but Elandria was too far away to make sense of his muffled speech. She raised her fingers to the glass and traced the shoreline with her fingernail. She sighed as she also traced the horizon.

  Her lips, which she usually kept tightly shut, now parted. She drew in several deep breaths before finding the courage to release her voice in song:

  My love has gone to sail upon the sea,

  A fortnight has passed without his return.

  I cannot smile; I cannot eat or sleep.

  I fear the worst and already I mourn.

  We were to marry come the gentle spring,

  In the small church our mothers kindly chose.

  I clutch a lock of his hair and his ring,

  Watching for signs of him upon the shores.

  Elandria’s voice echoed off the walls of the room, filling it completely with her celestial acappella melody. Trevain stopped his muttering and paused, allowing the music to flood his mind and body. It permeated his being in the same way that ingesting hot liquid would have sent feeling of warmth throughout his insides.

  He had not consumed any of the soup that Elandria and Mr. Fiskel had tried to get him to drink for days. They had been respectful of his wishes to starve himself. This poignant singing, however, was force-feeding his senses and overloading them with bucketfuls of emotional nutrients and enchantment. Now he discovered for what he had truly been famished.

  Elandria’s voice was sublime. She moved his blood, sending powerful currents through his stagnant arteries, with ripples that extended all the way to the smaller veins and capillaries. She brought all his pain to the surface, where it simmered on his skin, burning him briefly before dissipating into the air around him. Elandria’s voice was…

  Trevain suddenly sat up in bed, shocked by the realization. Elandria’s voice? He looked to where she stood near the window, belting out passionate lyrics in a loud and clear soprano. Yes, it was coming from her throat—the throat of the girl who had not spoken once since she had entered his home. He was being serenaded by the speechless girl for whom he had begun learning sign language!

  Although his astonishment was colossal, his immense pleasure at listening to the exquisite music easily overpowered his surprise. The sound was breathtaking. He could have sworn that he had heard it before.

  O, where is his fine ship? Where is my love?

  It was under the great sequoia tree,

  He avowed to all the heavens above,

  Come hell or high water he’d come for me!

  So I ask the skies now: where is my love?

  “You can speak,” he said dumbly, interrupting her song.

  She smiled at him weakly, and gave a small ladylike shrug. He stared at her, dumbfounded.

  “You can actually speak,” he repeated, in wonderment.

  Elandria shook her head to indicate the negative. She raised her hands to answer him with sign language. “Yes, I can, but I choose not to do so. I can communicate in many other ways. Where I hail from, everyone knows sign language and it is completely unnecessary.”

  Trevain frowned as he stared at her fast moving hands. “I am really trying to understand you, but I can only pick up a word here and there. I can’t put it together.”

  She tried to slow down her hand motions so that he could comprehend her signage. “I dislike the sound of my own voice in speech. It is garish and unrefined.”

  “Elandria!” he responded in frustration. “I just heard you use your voice! I’m not going crazy, am I? Please, speak to me. I know you can!”

  She paused, clenching and unclenching her hands into fists fretfully.

  “Elan?” he coaxed softly. “Please?”

  She reached up and began to finger her braid as she gathered the resolve to form a simple sentence. She opened her lips and uttered a simple proclamation:

  “Just as it never snows, but it blizzards, I never speak; I only sing.”

  He nodded then, satisfied. “I understand. I guess you have your reasons. Just like those ultra-holy monks who take vows of silence for personal enlightenment and such, right? Well, I won’t force you to speak anymore. I just wanted to know why… your voice! It’s magnificent. You’re an opera singer… you performed those recordings which Aazuria danced to in the club.”

  Elandria nodded, her eyes downcast shyly.

  “You’ve been professionally trained,” he added. “Just like Aazuria has been trained in dance. No high school diplomas, but professionals when it comes to fine arts. You girls are just full of surprises, do you know that?”

  Elandria gave him a small coy smile. “You have not the faintest idea,” she answered.

  Trevain observed the shy girl curiously for a moment. Then he grunted and crossed his arms. “That whole situation with that man, Naclana, didn’t make any sense. What is your sister hiding from me?”

  “Secrets bigger than you can imagine,” Elandria responded. “I am sure you know that she cares for you and acts with your best interests at heart; but she has important duties of which you cannot conceive.”

  “I see. Actually, I don’t. I don’t see at all,” he said miserably. “Would you sing to me again, Elan? I love the sound of your voice.”

  Elandria smiled in relief, grateful that Trevain was understanding of her need to remain silent unless it was in song. She was also delighted that he appreciated her singing so much that it had almost made him completely forget for a few seconds that his brother had just died. It was her only gift; if her voice was not capable of reaching him, there was no more she could do.

  She closed her eyes, and lost herself as she allowed her soul to pour forth and fill the room.

  The skies give me no comforting reply,

  Instead they mock me with cruel tempests.

  They terrify me, making lightning fly,

  And I know I am not one of the bless’d.

  I shall hold fast to hope though all seems lost,

  I shall think of my love and his kind smile.

  To retrieve him I shall pay any cost,

  To rescue him I shall sail endless miles.

  She continued to sing for several minutes. Every song that came to mind about love and loss, and even some songs she had created herself over the years. The acoustics of the large master bedroom were favorable, and she felt a sensation approaching joy as she allowed her voice to gust forth from deep in her gut and fill every corner and crevice of the chamber.

  When her songs ended, she remained motionless and quiet for several seconds. She turned to gaze out the window again, scanning the horizon. She heard a creak of motion in the bed, and turned and saw that Trevain was sobbing.

  “Not Callder, not Callder,” he was moaning. “I just don’t believe it.”

  He was crying. He was finally grieving and allowing himself to face what had happened. She felt a solemn satisfaction. He would be better before long. Elandria knew that modern medicine was without value in a case like this.

  Only music could heal a destroyed soul.

  19

  A few days later, Trevain was scarfing down an omelet that Mr. Fiskel had prepared while he skimmed through the newspaper. Elandria smiled at him as she sipped on her orange juice and nibbled her toast. His health and spirits had improved exponentially since the night she had sung to him. She could see that he was almost himself again.

  Trevain suddenly closed th
e newspaper and folded it up. “Maybe I’m out of line, Elandria—but what would you think of me asking for your sister’s hand in marriage?”

  Elandria dropped her fork. It had been tragically halfway to her mouth with a piece of buttered toast on it. She stared at Trevain in bewilderment.

  “I know there’s a gigantic difference in our ages… a gulf really. But do you think it’s too large? Aazuria doesn’t seem to notice or care.”

  It was a moment before Elandria had the presence of mind to retrieve her fallen toast. She stared at it intently, as if it would reveal the answers to her.

  “I know it seems really sudden. I just thought I’d ask for your opinion… and your permission, before I go ahead and do anything stupid.”

  Elandria thought about the fact that if Aazuria chose to marry Trevain and live on land, Adlivun would become her responsibility. Elandria shuddered at this thought; she did not wish to be placed into such a frightening position of power. Then she thought about the fact that her sister seemed very happy with Trevain. Happier than she had been in as long as Elandria could remember.

  He waited for a moment, but there was no response. He smiled nervously. “I thought so. It is a stupid idea, isn’t it?”

  She still remained quiet, and he sighed. “Elan, I understand the basic hand signals for ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ Do you think I’m an idiot for considering this? Just tell me what you think.”

  The hand holding the fork—which had been pierced through a carefully cut square of toast—began to shake. Elandria tried to breathe steadily, thinking about how little Trevain knew of her family. Happiness could never last when there were so many skeletons in the cupboard. How should she respond? This was not an easy question to answer. An idea began to form in the back of her mind. She considered telling Trevain something personal, just to test his love for her sister.

  “Should I be worried that she hasn’t returned yet?” Trevain asked. “Is that what this is about?”

  Elandria stood up and headed for a certain cabinet she had seen the men go into. She grabbed the knobs and flung the doors open. Choosing a bottle, she held it up and looked at Trevain questioningly.

  “Uh, help yourself,” he said, scratching his head. “But it’s pretty early in the day for scotch and I’m not sure you’re even of legal…”

  He stopped because Elandria had already opened the bottle and was guzzling it down as though it were water. He watched in surprise as she finished a quarter of the bottle before he rose to his feet to wrestle it from her surprisingly strong grip.

  “That’s pretty potent stuff, Elan,” he said with a frown. “It’ll hit you really hard.”

  “That liquid is vile!” she said, wheezing and screwing up her face. She placed a hand against her nose to ease the burning in her sinuses. Her eyes were beginning to water.

  “Yeah, it is,” he agreed, looking at the bottle. “It was my brother’s favorite. Hey! You talked again.”

  “May I have another sip?” she asked politely. Against his better judgment, but unable to resist the sweet request in the third sentence he had ever heard her speak, he handed the bottle back to her. He watched warily as her sip became several generous gulps.

  “Elan…” he began in confusion.

  “Trevain, there are a few things you need to know,” Elandria said, coughing as she put the bottle aside. She retrieved a napkin to daintily wipe the moisture from her lips.

  “I’m all ears,” he said.

  She hesitated. “Aazuria, and Corallyn and I… we each have different mothers.”

  “Different mothers? That’s unusual. I suppose some people remarry…”

  “He did not ‘remarry,’ as you say,” Elandria hissed. “Our father… he had many wives simultaneously. At least at first. Eventually, he stopped marrying them all together. He just chose whomever he wanted, and he took her…”

  “Are you saying your father was a rapist?”

  “No. Perhaps not in the legal sense of the term. But also, yes. Very much so. Women simply did not refuse him. He was a man of power, and everyone was afraid to say ‘no’ to him.” She picked up the bottle again and proceeded to swallow several mouthfuls of liquor before looking Trevain squarely in the face. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and spoke again. Her voice faltered. “Even his own daughters were afraid.”

  Trevain tried to respond, but found himself failing to find the right words. “I’m so sorry, Elan.” He swallowed. “I had no idea … ”

  “The type of father a girl has creates a profound effect on the woman she becomes,” Elandria said softly. “My father is the reason that I prefer never to speak.”

  As he watched the emotions dance across her face, Trevain felt hot tears sting the back of his eyes. He raised a hand to his temple, and took a deep breath. “God, I wish I could undo what happened to you. Why… why are you choosing to tell me this?”

  “I trust you. If you wish to become my brother it is important that you understand what little you can of our lives and past.”

  Trevain reached for the same bottle in which she had put a remarkable dent, and took a few gulps himself. He understood how the bitter taste made it easier to converse about such topics. “So you’re trying to tell me that Aazuria is not in the least bit ready for marriage because of what her father did to her.”

  Elandria smiled a neurotic little smile. “He did not touch her. She was his firstborn, his pure gold baby. He would have locked her up and kept her in a metal cage forever if he could have done so. He did try to do so a couple times, but the cage was made of ice—and ice always melts. No, he only came to me, and to Corallyn, and to our other sisters. We had a few other sisters, but they have killed themselves.”

  Trevain felt physically sick upon hearing this. Bile rose in his throat as rage blossomed in his gut. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know. God. What you must think of me, crying like a child over my brother when you have lost siblings too! I can’t believe… why didn’t she tell me any of this?”

  Elandria reached out and placed her hand on his arm as he struggled to cope with the information. It was more challenging for her to speak at all than for her to actually face these facts. It was all in the past, and she knew how to be detached. Trevain was more emotional than she was. In her lengthy existence she had seen and experienced much suffering. She was excellent at being numb when she most needed to be.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he suddenly said resolutely. “That’s all in the past. I want to make her life and all of your lives better. I’ll help you heal, the way you have helped me heal. Tell me truthfully, Elan. Do you think I shouldn’t ask Aazuria to marry me? Is it too soon; should I give her some space?”

  So he was not yet dissuaded. Her brow creased in a combination of pleasure and frustration. Elandria looked down at her hands for a moment in silence, as if deciding whether or not she should answer.

  “Elandria?” he urged, a bit frantically.

  She looked up at him for several seconds, with a decisive and intense expression rapidly consuming her normally timid features. He could feel that her next words were going to be pivotal, but he could not have prepared himself.

  “Aazuria killed our father.”

  “What?” Trevain took a step backward as though he had been struck. “She did wha… are you… you’ve got to be … a joke…” He seemed incapable of finishing his sentences, and temporarily powerless to begin any new ones. He slammed his hand down on the breakfast table as though trying to jumpstart his stalling brain. “Dear Lord! You’re serious. Aazuria killed her father? Aazuria killed her father.”

  Elandria nodded gravely as she observed his reaction with as much mild amusement as she could allow herself to feel.

  Trevain took several deep breaths, placing both hands on the table to calm himself and process the information. “Aazuria killed… killed as in murdered. She’s a murderer. God. Is that—that seedy looking fellow, Naclana, is he her defense attorney? Is she on trial? If so, she needs a real lawyer! So
meone who gets haircuts. We can get her off…”

  A smile touched Elandria’s face. She had already gotten her answer; she knew with whom Trevain’s loyalties were aligned. “She is not on trial. Everyone knows that she did it. Everyone begged her to do it.”

  Trevain had to take a moment to let this sink in as well. “How did she kill him?”

  “Why does that matter?” Elandria asked, studying his face carefully.

  “I guess it doesn’t,” he answered. “I’m just curious—and very confused.”

  “She drowned him,” Elandria answered, “with his own blood.”

  Trevain’s brow wrinkled in consternation as he tried to imagine Aazuria doing this. “How?”

  “I believe the precise term is ‘hemothorax.’ She stabbed him between the ribs in a particular spot, severing an artery and causing his lungs to fill with blood in less than a minute.”

  She saw that Trevain was staring at her rather aghast upon hearing the details of this description. Elandria reflected upon her father for a moment. There were several sacred tenets that every sovereign sea nation abided by—not laws in the sense of the ones enforced on land, but principles of living. Her father had broken the first tenet:

  Ye who dwell beneath the sea or above it, know that your breath is a gift. If ye desecrate the sanctity of the liberty and wellbeing of any innocent human without just cause, your breath shall be stripped from you straightaway. Henceforth, you shall become one of the cursed legions of the drowning mermaids and mermen.

  The major concept among sea-dweller faiths was that breath was holy. It was what gave life, and it was what took life away. Adlivun’s myth of the afterlife depicted that if one lived in a dishonorable way, they would spend eternity struggling for oxygen; struggling to extract it from any medium possible.