Nikolas and Company: The Merman and The Moon Forgotten (17 page)

“Mermaids!” Xanthus cut Grand off and
flung himself to the other end of the willy-kirk. A second
willy-kirk below them carried two mermen in wheelchairs. “Wicked
cool.”

Huron knifed Nick’s
skull:
The Rones lie about their true
intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us
all.

Nick grabbed the edge of the
willy-kirk.

The Rones lie about their
true intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us
all.

Nick crumpled to his knees.

“Nikolas?” Grand looked to his
grandson.

“It’s her . . .” Nick tried to stand
up.

The Rones lie about their
true intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us
all.

Nick moaned and wiped something warm
from his lip.

Blood.

“What’s going on, Grand?” said
Nick.

“Is it her?” Grand whispered over his
shoulder. “Is Huron speaking to you?”

“She just keeps repeating herself. Goes
on and on about those Rones.”

“Mermaids, Mr. Grand,” Xanthus shouted,
pointing to the willy-kirk below them.

“Merrows, Mr. Kobayashi,” Grand called
back. “That is what we call them. Even so, that isn’t their true
name. In more ancient times they were called something else.” Grand
looked back to Nick. “Rones.”

“Rones?” Nick turned slowly and edged
over the willy-kirk. “Rones . . . The Rones lie about their true
intent . . . Those Merrows are Rones?”

“One and the same,” said Grand. “Huron
knows the ancient tongue better than our own. She warns you of the
evil the Merrows bring to her city.”

Nick shook his head. “What?
She—what?”

“The Council of Teine summoned me to
aid the Merrows. So imagine my shock when you told me Huron’s
message,” Grand breathed deeply. “Nikolas, she didn’t call you to
save the Merrows. She called you to stop them.”

Nick watched an older Merrow adjust his
fishtail and pat down a powdered wig.

“Everything just got complicated,
didn’t it?”

“Yes, lad.” Grand gripped the edge of
the willy-kirk. “I’m afraid your troubles have just
begun.”

Nick let out a long, tired
sigh.

What are the Merrows hiding?

Will Nick be able to stop them in
time?

Does Yeri know he’s gotten himself
into?

Find out on Episode 2:

When Boats Breathe and Cities
Speak

THINK YOU'RE PRETTY SMART?

Do you know what’s going on? Think you
know what is the mysterious creature most foul? Or what the Merrows
are up to? Share your theories with other fans of Nikolas and Co!
Go to:

http://www.nikolasandco.com/postulate

Bonus Story

Santa’s Double
Edge

December
24
^th
,
1985

Mikey was stunned.

Mom and Dad never told him. Grandpa
never told him. And now, he was almost eight. Ron did try to warn
him on the last day of school, but Mikey punched him in the face
for uttering such evil words:

There is no Santa
Claus.

Of course it was Liz who broke the
news. She was really happy about it too, like she had been looking
forward to destroying Mikey’s childhood. Like she ran to Mom and
Dad and said, “Puh-lease can I tell him? Oh, I so want to tell him.
What better time to throw away all Mikey’s hopes and dreams than
Christmas Eve?” Mikey discovered something else that
day.

Older sisters are evil…to the
max.

Now that the cat was out of the bag on
the whole operation, he knew there was no Easter Bunny or Tooth
Fairy. Actually, that didn’t really bother Mikey. Easter Bunny was
always a little creepy. A man-sized rabbit laying rabbit eggs
everywhere in the grass for you to find? Grody. Mikey would eat all
his Easter candy except those gnarly eggs. Liz could have them. And
the tooth fairy? Mikey was strict about his “No Girls Allowed
Beyond This Door” policy, so he left his tooth in the hallway with
a note written: “That’s far enough, thank you. Leave the money
where I can see it”, with a big arrow pointing to the bloody
tooth.

Suddenly, Mikey had a sickening
feeling. He sat up and looked at the chorus of toys around his
room.

“It’s all been a big lie,” Mikey fell
back with a groan.

There was no Vol-Tron or G.I. Joe or
He-Man or Transformers or anything. Teddy Ruxpin was probably just
a doll with batteries and a cassette tape.

Tomorrow was Christmas. What’s the
point now? Mikey should march downstairs and demand that Mom and
Dad give him his presents immediately.

This was an unmitigated
disaster.

Mikey laid on his bed, letting the
wintry sun grow dim until his glow-in-the-dark moon lit up the
ceiling. Mom yelled to him from the kitchen, reminding him it was
his favorite dinner - TV dinner night. Mikey wasn’t hungry. Dad
stood on the bottom step, which creaked in that moan-cry way, and
reminded Mikey that his favorite Christmas show was on HBO: Emmitt
Otter's Jug Band Christmas. Mikey would never watch TV again. Mikey
just might never move again.

Eventually, the stresses of the day
coaxed Mikey under the blankets. It was only eight o’clock but who
needed to stay up late on Christmas Eve? Not like Santa was quietly
parking his sleigh on the roof.

“Please . . . Chimney? I’m such a
dork. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Santa was just an old man in a fat
suit who worked holidays at the mall.

Mikey fell asleep,
bitterly.

It sounded like someone grabbed a
bagful of books and dropped them from the second floor.

“Santa?” Mikey launched to his feet.
He was still wearing his stone-washed jeans and alligator polo
shirt.

Then, he remembered. There is no Santa
– there never was. Mom must have fallen asleep in front of the T.V.
while watching some late night cop movie.

Mikey’s stomach growled immediately.
Having skipped dinner, he decided to fix himself a good bowl of
Sugar Smacks. Midway down the stairs, he corrected himself. Kids
believe in Santa and eat sugary cereals in the middle of the night.
Mikey wasn’t a kid anymore. He’d have a ham sandwich and maybe some
V-8.

A fog of green Christmas tree lights
spilled out of the living room and into the hallway. As he did a
thousand times before, Mikey grabbed the stairway banister, spun
around the corner and nearly wet his pants.

He tried to yell, but Liz sealed her
clammy hands over his mouth.

Shhh,
Liz signaled.

Between the tree and small end table
lay a mass that breathed like a snore that wasn’t a snore. A frosty
the snowman plate hung off the edge of the table and the glass of
milk for Santa was nowhere to be seen. Ornamental lights served as
a camouflage, creating a green, shadowy figure. Mikey scrubbed his
eyes to get a better look at the La-Z-Boy, but could only see a
pair of muddy boots.

The shape of a head moved ever so
slightly in the direction of Mikey. It’s gloved hand raised a
glass, “Mejolka?”

Mikey couldn’t respond.

“Mejolka?” the voice
growled.

“I think he wants more milk,” Liz
hissed.

The only sign that the glass ever held
milk was a glove covered in driblets of white liquid.

“Forgive me. Yes.
Milk
,” the man said in
either a Russian or Terminator accent.

Liz took a cautionary step toward the
glass, then changed her mind and scampered into the
kitchen.

“
Forgive me. I am slightly
disoriented. Forgot that I was in the U. S. of A.”

“Do you speak a lot of languages? Are
you like – a spy?” said Mikey.

“No, no,” the shadow growled a
chuckle. “In my line of work it is necessary for me to speak all
forms of dialect. No one submits their requests in Old Norse these
days. Unlike the delusion of my captors, the world did not become
Viking after all. Ah, thank you child.”

Liz walked slowly to the shadow,
holding a half-gallon carton of Shepp’s with the word’s printed on
the side: “Have You Seen Me?” The glove reached out.

Mikey swallowed. Would he be the next,
“Have You Seen Me?”

The shadow tipped the carton back and
came the sound of a greedy throat vacuuming up milk. He breathed,
as if coming up for air, then offered the carton back to
Liz.

“Um, no. We’re good,” Liz held her
hands up.

“Danka…I mean, thank you.”

From the shadow came a thousand little
crunches. The man must have been holding onto one last cookie,
waiting for more milk. The kids looked at each other, wondering who
should be the one to call Mom and Dad.

“You Americans sure do love your
cookies,” the shadow declared, “especially those Oreos. Not that
I’m complaining. A far cry better than my north country route. Four
hundred years I had to endure porridge until someone thought of
putting out some pastries. A man couldn’t last a day on porridge,
much less three hundred and sixty five. Oh. And the Moroccans -”
The man jerked his body in a shiver and did that strange,
growl-chuckle again, “Snail broth. That’ll put you off eating for
awhile.”

Mikey eyed Liz, like he knew something
and she should know it too. He looked around for some kind of light
that wouldn’t wake up Mom and Dad. Mikey remembered the two foot
fiber-optic Christmas tree Aunt Naomi gave them as an early
Christmas present. Dad hated it, said it was the ruin of Christmas.
Mom thought it was “cool”.

Mikey found the white chord with the
dial-switch and thumbed it on. A blue glow filled the
room.

Liz gasped.

“I knew –” But Mikey stopped himself.
He was planning to say, “I knew it!” Now he wasn’t sure.

The man could be Santa, if Santa had
taken up with Vikings. He must have been six feet standing, didn’t
have a round stomach anywhere, and his hands were pistons wrapped
in studded cuffs. The man’s fur clothes were far from Coca-Cola
red. It looked as if he’d hunted down and killed a red bear, using
its pelt as clothing. Even the lining wasn’t a fluffy, snow-cap
white, but curly and in need of a serious rinse cycle. When Mikey
saw his chin, he concluded one thing.

I would never pull that
beard. In fact, I would never sit on that lap and pull that
beard.

The best part of sitting on
Santa’s lap was pulling the beard.
If
it was real, then Mikey knew
real-Santa was able to fit Breton Mall in his schedule. If not,
then he was just another hired hand while real-Santa was over at
Woodland Shopping Center. You know, like a stunt double. But that
beard was
more
than real. It was bound in two leather straps, creating white
horns down his chest.

“
Santa?” Mikey had to
finally ask.

The man looked at Mikey with blond rip
curls for eyebrows and flush-red skin, as if he had been skiing his
whole life.

“Santa? Well, if you must. I am not
much of a saint though,” the man said, “at least not in the
traditional sense.”

“Well. Um. My name is Mikey. This is
my lame-o sister, Liz. I can call you something else if you want.
I’ve memorized all of your different names. Julenissen, Black
Peter, Kanakaloka…”

The man waved him away, “Oh, do not
too concern yourself with all that. Been through it all with the
names. Norsemen liked to call me Odin, their god. Mrs. Brown of
Temple Texas often referred to me as the devil. I am neither. I
will say,” the man’s eyes lost their focus, “Father Christmas is my
personal favorite…anyway, I find titles silly and
self-aggrandizing. You can call me what my father called me
screaming and bloody nearly thirteen hundred years ago. Kriss,” the
man’s accent thickened, “Kriss Kringle.”

“You’re Santa though. You’re thee
Santa,” Mikey smiled.

“Or,” said Liz, “he’s an extra from
that Viking opera show in town. You know, the one that just closed
down because the ticket sales were so bad.” Liz crossed her arms,
“You got all spazed out about it and had too much to drink.
Probably thought this was your house.”

“Are you here to drop off presents?”
Mikey ignored Liz.

“No. Afraid my visit is quite selfish.
I was awfully hungry. The mothers’ food sees me through the year,
especially when Ull gets nasty. He’s quite strong near solstice.
Been in a tussle with him all week.”

“Tussle? With Ull? O. K…” Liz dropped
her chin to her neck.

Mikey realized Kriss only used his
left hand to eat the cookies. His other arm hung over the side,
slightly hidden. He edged around Liz for a better look.