Kraken (7 page)

“Look, that is creepy as fuck. You. Do. Not. Know. Me. I had never seen you before last night.”

Cyrus snorted, reaching out an arm and pulling Will against him, wrapping him tight against his body. “It’s all okay. The island will come back to you, now that you’ve come back to the island.

Will pushed against Cyrus’s chest, stumbling away. “Cyrus, I’m here because I was a fucking idiot, all right? Because I felt upset that my boyfriend effectively dumped me, then
humiliated
that he hooked up with some woman within a week of dumping me, and I took off into the forest in the middle of the night. Me being here is a loathsome, excruciating, nauseating accident, that I will do everything I can to forget.”

Cyrus just looked at him. “Soon you’ll realize you being here is no accident.”

Cyrus started walking again. Will sagged against the wall, all energy evaporated with his outburst. He was at a loss for what to do. He knew no-one; there was no-where to go. There seemed no other option but to follow Cyrus in mortification.

They clambered over a boat ramp with rails heading down into dirty water, glistening with a sheen of diesel fuel. Inside the boat shed someone was welding, while a radio played a tinny pop song about card games. Soon they were walking past a long, low house now, ranch style, built right up against the shingle. The yard was strewn with refuse. A broken acrylic chair leaned awkwardly against the faded siding, and an uncoiled hose snaked through the thick weeds.

“Fuck, that’s ugly,” The words escaped Will without conscious thought. He was still cringing at his outburst, and full of annoyance with Cyrus for his ludicrous insistence that he knew Will.

Cyrus seemed determined to forget Will’s words. “Tell me about it. When Mr. Falconer talks about opening up the island, this is what he means. More people doing this. The 21st century is staggeringly unappealing.”

Cy pointed to the left, where a tiny path of dry red clay whispered into the woods. The steep grade worked upwards in switchbacks, and the hot sun burned the back of Will’s neck. The trees and dust bored him. What did people
do
all day with nothing but nature to look at? Words burst from him, desperate for diversion.

“So . . . did you grow up on the island.”

“Yep.”

“Are you parents still here?”

“No. They died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happens.”

“Do you mind if I ask how?”

“You know that’s about the most upsetting thing you can ask someone who lost a loved one, right?”

Heat rose to his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry— ” This was why he should never try to make conversation. He didn’t have a good handle on what was okay to talk about. Like the time he’d raised the topic of toenail ablation surgery at staff drinks.

Cyrus waved dismissively. “It’s all right. Everyone does. It’s like you all can’t help yourselves.”

The path led into a ravine with a tiny muddy creek at the base. Will slipped as they clambered over rocks, but Cyrus caught him firmly by the arm, guiding him to the next handhold.

At the top of the gully Cyrus paused by a large, flat-topped boulder. On it were laid three abalone shells, small as robin’s eggs, shining in the sun. Next to them was a pile of glittering silver coins, pinning down a sheaf of green notes. Will rested on a fallen tree trunk, while Cyrus dug a cold bottle of water out of his knapsack. He took a deep drink, then passed it to Will.

“Boating accident, they said. No-one knows exactly what happened. My parents went out sailing one day, and they never came home again. Their bodies were found and brought back the next day. We buried them in the graveyard across the way.”

Will nodded. Saying sorry didn’t seem like the right thing to do. He handed the water back to Cy, who stowed it away, then stood and picked up the shells and cash from the rock.

“Should you . . . Should you take those?”

Cyrus shrugged. “Who else would want them?”

“I don’t know. But it looks like they were left there on purpose.”

Cyrus smiled and stashed them in his pocket. “But they’re pretty.”

Another forty minutes brought them home. Will was panting when he got to the cottage, unused to the exertion. He was catching his breath on the porch when Cyrus pulled an envelope out from under the doormat. He opened it and read it, then passed it to Will.

“Drinks.”

“What?”

“Drinks. Aiden’s invited us for drinks. He lives up the back a ways: he’s building that new development you saw the plans for, down at the store.”

Will stared at the note uncomprehendingly. “I can’t go with you to drinks!”

“Of course you will.”

Will was entirely overwhelmed. Too much unfamiliar input, too much uncertainty. He wanted to go inside and shut the doors and curl up quietly, but this wasn’t his home. He needed to get away. He didn’t even know this guy.

“I’m . . . I’m going for a walk. Just to the point.”

Will jumped down to the ground from the porch, slowly walking the hundred or so feet out to the narrow point. Two pine trees were barely hanging on. Will cautiously looked over the edge. One day soon they’d make the long fall to the beach below. He supposed eventually, centuries from now, the cottage would go too. Now that would be something to witness. Still, the view from here was amazing. Will could spy the blue blurred mainland in the distant east, and turning the other way, he could peer around the next point, right up the harbor to a distant field of low gray-green mangroves.

As he watched he heard the deep regular chug of a diesel engine rounding the point, heading his way. A jaunty, brightly painted shape came into view. The ferry.

He ran for the house, taking the steps two at a time. He dashed inside, not bothering about tracking in mud, only determined to find his jeans and wallet.

Cyrus looked around. “What’s up?”

“The ferry. It’s here after all. Gotta go. Sorry. Wallet, wallet . . . where’s my clothes?”

Parker leaned against the kitchen bench, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s no need to rush off. Catch it tomorrow.”

Will ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck, no, I have to go now. Maybe they’ll wait. Or go back to Parker’s for my bag. Look, if you find my wallet, just send it to me, okay? I’ll write you my address.”

He leaped off the porch again, dashing down the path to the tiny beach. He nearly fell on one corner, pulling the muscle in his calf nastily, and limping down the last of the steps. He skittered to a halt on the shingle, jumping up and down, waving his arms. The ferry had nearly crossed the mouth of the bay.

“Hey! Hey, hey! Over here.”

For a second Will thought it was slowing, pulling in, and his heart lurched in relief. But then there was a renewed billow of exhaust, the ferry gave a merry ‘toot,’ and Will caught a glimpse of an arm waving through the wheelhouse window. The ferry steamed around the point, and was gone.

Will lowered his arms. A pair of glebes silently rose from under the water, their beaks full of fish. The wake from the ferry crashed into the rocks along from the beach. Will retraced his steps up the hill, limping and despondent.

Cyrus was waiting for him at the top of the path, looking off into the middle distance.

“Did you think I’d get lost?” Will tried to inject his voice with good humor, but it came out petulant.

“Will, you can’t go. You don’t see . . . “ Cyrus kept his head down, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Fuck. Will, there wasn’t one day that went by when I wasn’t waiting for you. Waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m twenty-four years old. You haven’t been waiting for me. You don’t know me!”

Cyrus looked up, and Will saw that his eyes were red.

“Last night . . . At first I thought I was imagining you. It wouldn’t be the first time. I knew you’d come back: I knew you’d have to, but then to finally see you. Here.” Cyrus’s voice was full of wonder and longing, and Will felt compelled to take a half-step towards him.

“You were my
other half
, love. You’re special. I’ve been hollow ever since you left. And to have you back . . . to know that you’d come, after all this time— “

Will shook his head. “I’m not special.” That was the one thing that of which he was certain, in a reality that seemed to have gone awry. “Why did I leave then?”

“I don’t want to tell you.”

“Fine.” Will had no more energy to argue.

“Fuck!” Cyrus raised his head and bellowed at the sky. “I’ll tell you. But could you, just . . . Wait, can you sit down?”

Will lowered himself to the ground. Soft, spongy moss lay under a covering of ash gray twigs.

Cyrus raised his fingers to his shirt collar and slowly started undoing the top button. “Just sit and there and wait, okay? So we can talk about it.”

Cyrus finished undoing the shirt, slipped it off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground.

At first Will wondered why Cyrus was simply standing there, looking at him, then he realized that Cy’s arms were lengthening, his chest bulging. The edges of Will’s vision went white, and his hearing dimmed, as every brain cell strained to understand what appeared to be a hand-drawn animation unfolding in the three-dimensional space in front of him. Flailing suckered arms slowly drew themselves out from Cyrus’s chest, his arms becoming long and twice their length, with broad flat paddle-shaped appendages spreading out towards the tips. Cyrus’s skin mottled, as bruises bloomed faintly on his skin, darkened, then flowed together, until his torso was a deep navy, patterned with faint pale stripes that seemed to shift and move under the surface. His arms and tentacles were a rich cobalt, the skin not smooth, but rather plush-looking, almost fuzzy.

“Oh,” said Will. He stood slowly, and took a step backwards. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest with the delightful staccato tempo of tachycardia. There was a moment of considerable clarity, where Will realized that this was the cue for him to turn tail; to run and run and never stop – possibly screaming – until his breath gave out.

But he’d lived his life wanting to
know
; measuring and quantifying, untangling the thread of the world until it lay smooth on the reel. He’d squashed the tender voice inside that urged him to consider there was more in heaven and earth . . .

And now it seemed nothing was the way he’d thought; not in the least. Cy had just handed him a piece to the jigsaw he’d been trying to complete all his life. Running away meant turning his back on a chance he may never have again. It was about this moment Will realized the sick feeling in his belly was not fear, but déjà vu strong enough to make him dizzy.

“Oh,” he said again. “Oh my god, it was
you
.
I saw you
.”

The two of them stood there amongst the trees, Will impossibly still, the tips of Cy’s arms in constant motion, like ripples on a shore.

“Can I . . . touch you?” said Will. He yearned to know that this was real, tangible.

Cy took a step towards him. Will reached out a tentative hand, and lightly laid his palm on a tentacle.

“You’re so soft,” breathed Will. He trailed his fingers along Cy’s skin, tightening his grasp lightly to caress the plush warmth. He raised his other hand, cupping a wide, leaf-shaped, pod-like protuberance from one tentacle. It felt surprisingly heavy, and as he stood there Cy brought one of his tendrils up to Will’s arm, stroking his skin and trailing along towards his hand. He could feel Cy’s heartbeat through the gentle touch.

Will took another step towards Cy, releasing the tentacle and working his hands softly into the forest of Cy’s arms. Soft suckers kissed his wrist, and a warm weight looped up over his shoulders and around his waist.

“Can you . . . change all the way? Because I can’t help but notice you still have legs, and frankly, it looks really weird.”

The color parted on Cy’s skin, and white spots seemed to grow from the inside out, as if someone had dropped bleach on indigo cloth. Cy gave a shiver, and then he was just a man, standing there, embracing Will.

“Don’t call me Frankly.”