The Sea of Ash (9 page)

At the next high tide -- which
happened to be the following morning -- he went down to the sea and knelt at
the edge of the nudging waves. He opened the gourd and sprinkled the seeds into
the surf. They floated, dispersed and were carried out to sea.

 
Pond passed the time in a hotel room.
Shortly before low tide he returned to the spot where he had deposited the
seeds. Dusk was falling, and there was moisture in the sea air -- lighter than
drizzle, more dappling than mist. He knelt by the shore, watching the ashen
foam as the waves slid back. The reversing water revealed damp sand, and
pressed into the surface of the sand were the sunflower seeds. They were
arranged in such a way as to spell out asymmetric words... They gave a
location, a date and a time.

14. RETURN TO LEXINGTON

Anticipating the return of the
white-haired figure has left my nerves in a fragile state. I shy at sudden
sounds, and my entire body clenches each time a person with long light hair
enters my periphery. My appetite is compromised, and my hands have adopted a
chronic tremble. I am, by nature, anything but a combative creature...I dread
the inevitable confrontation.

The small black bag containing the
tooth remains in my pocket at all times. It offers some slight degree of
comfort, but wouldn't I feel stronger if I were armed with a pistol as Pond
was? I suppose I could venture to the site where The Garden of Guns once grew,
but that in itself might prove dangerous. A low-income housing project was
built on the spot back in the mid-seventies. Since then the complex of dreary
brick boxes has become infested with drugs and criminals. In fact, there are a
disproportionate number of shootings there in the tenements, and interestingly
enough, many of the weapons involved are antiques.

I suppose it is possible that the
thing that followed me from New Hampshire has lost interest in me. If it were
truly intent on locating me wouldn't it have done so by now? Couldn't it have
done me harm right there outside the Eastborough library if it had been so
inclined?

I mustn't talk myself into a false
sense of security. There have been some terrible deaths related to the
phenomenon of overlaps, as well as the disappearances. Poor Professor Wakefield
certainly suffered a disturbing end there in Pond's examination office, and
then there was the Rosemary Willard case of 1969.

Roy and Rosemary Willard were a
married couple living in a working-class neighborhood of Bridgeport,
Connecticut. It was the end of July, and they had just returned from a vacation
trip to Cape Cod. Roy had done some fishing on the Cape -- he caught a small
coppery fish the likes of which he had never seen. It broke like glass when it
squirmed from his hands and landed on the deck of the boat.

After the couple unpacked, so the
story goes, Roy went upstairs to take a bath. His wife remained downstairs; she
heard the water running for an unnaturally long time and wondered if her
husband had fallen asleep with the faucet on. She went upstairs and knocked at
the bathroom door but received no answer. She knocked louder and called to her
husband, but still he did not reply. Finally she opened the door and looked in.

The floor was flooded. Roy was
slumped on his back in the overflowing tub with a small grey person the size of
a cat crouching on his chest. The creature had its arms wrapped around the
oversized handle of a black metal tool reminiscent of a garden spade. It was
scooping out a large hole where her husband's face had been, hollowing out his
head as if it were a jack-o'-lantern.

Rosemary ran from the house and
was found screaming in the street. When the police came, she told them what she
saw. It was obvious to them that she had gone mad and killed the man. She was
arrested for murder and placed in jail to await trial.

Several weeks later Rosemary
vanished from her cell. The compartment did not appear compromised in any way,
and yet she was gone. All that the authorities found were a few briny strands
of black seaweed strewn on the floor.

Is it any wonder that I can't eat
or sleep?

I have returned to Lexington, to
the noble old Sumner Inn. Somehow, looming against a backdrop of colorful
maples, it seems older than when I last saw it. But autumn has a way of making
all of New England seem a glorious and haunted antique.

It is good to be in the warming
company of Imogene Carlisle. She feeds me, seats me by the fire and pours me
tea. I am comfortable enough to tell her about my travels and my encounter with
the ghastly stranger.

She is a steady woman as well as
self-sufficient. She reassures me that I will be fine. But, I wonder if those are
merely the obligatory words of a good-hearted individual -- didn't I see a look
of fear flicker in her eyes?

It is late, and I am sitting in my
room. This is the same one in which I stayed last time. A soft September rain
pads at the window, and wind breathes through the wet leaves. I am steeling
myself. A flashlight, an umbrella and an empty glass bottle are waiting on the
bed.

Not knowing where to turn, I have
decided to summon Fractured Harry. He, or it, will guide me, suggest a location
where I should go -- maybe someplace to escape the thing that stole into this
realm, or maybe someplace to find it. I have memorized the strange little
conjuration song; I whisper it into the bottle. I cork the bottle and slip it
into my raincoat. I leave my room, walk quietly through the old Georgian inn
and step out into the rain.

The old cemetery is a short walk
down the road. Raindrops wink in the beam of my flashlight; others dapple my
umbrella. The burial yard is shapeless in the dark. The old tilted slates
regard me inscrutably with their carved faces. Wet leaves squeak and hiss under
my feet, wet leaves scent the air. I bend, stuff the bottle into damp grass and
head back to the inn.

15. THE RECITAL

The seeds in the sand showed Pond
where to go. It was the evening of October 30th, 1920. He drove west through
rain and falling leaves, through a tunnel of soggy trees. He reached the humble
center of Sterling, Massachusetts, found the old meetinghouse and parked the
Nash.

Other vehicles were crowded
outside the big white building; lights filled the tall windows. Pond could hear
music coming from inside, moody strings humming, rumbling like the thunder that
the storm did not provide.

Pond was wearing his finest suit.
He adjusted his shirt to better hide the extra limb, straightened his tie, then
climbed the granite steps. The large double doors whined as he entered the
lobby. A sign on an easel announced a free chamber music recital by the local
composer Davis Storrow.

Rich tones filled the old 1850s
structure, warming it. There were cello chords so deep that they nearly
vibrated through the floor. Pond followed the sounds, his fast heart
contrasting with the pensive flow of music. He came to an open doorway and
peered in. The audience was a modest crowd, largely obscured in dimness; a
string quartet was seated on a small stage.

Pond scanned the audience for
Arabella. Many women were wearing hats, but she was not -- he knew her by her
black hair; even from behind, he knew. She was in the front row. The music
piece came to an end and the hall was briefly silent. Someone suppressed a
cough. Old floorboards creaked under Pond's nervous shifting.

The lead violinist stood up and
smiled. He was handsome and rather young with a thin mustache, his hair slicked
back and dark. It was Davis Storrow.

"Now," Storrow said,
gazing into the front row, a certain intimate quality in his manner informing
Pond that the performer was holding the eye of a lover, "we will be
performing my latest composition, entitled
Daughter of the Drowned Temple
."

Pond stepped forward as the first
bow touched its strings. High notes. Storrow played well -- the sound conjured
a mental image of moonlight shimmering on water. Pond was through the doorway
and in the hall proper. The cello came in; it moaned with a rhythm like slow
waves. Pond walked along one side of the audience, staring at the back of
Arabella's head.

It was a lovely piece of music,
steady and building as Pachelbel's
Canon
. Storrow was rapt. The music
was suffused with beauty and sadness as it filled the air. Pond moved through
it as if wading in water. He was nearing the front row.

He did not know what he would say
to her, or if she would even remember him. Was she now capable of speech?
What
in fact was she? He had succeeded in finding her, and yet, as he closed the
distance between them, he found himself wondering, "what next?"

The strings dipped, hauntingly
low. Arabella's profile came into view. The doctor's shadow swept over her, and
she turned, looked up as he stepped in front of her. She was as beautiful as he
remembered, her eyes darker than black, a striking contrast to her flesh, her
pearls and her simple white dress.

"Hello," he said.

Arabella grinned pleasantly and
tilted her head. He saw the recognition register, and something else entirely
as the small third arm darted out from his shirt, snatched the pistol from his
waistband and fired into her face.

Pond was as surprised as the rest.

"No!" he cried.

Arabella jolted back in her seat,
then slumped forward, her head hanging down so that black hair made a veil
around the damage. A stream of liquid poured down, darkening her dress. It was
greyish, translucent, and it smelled like the sea.

There was a terrible commotion,
women screaming, people tumbling and running. Pond bent to try and aid
Arabella. The fragile little hand had dropped the silver gun; it reached to
touch the woman's face. It stroked her wet cheek with a tenderness that seemed
apologetic.

Several men rushed at Pond and
pinned him to the ground. Davis Storrow came raging, wielding his violin like a
club. Arabella was the only one left sitting in the audience, slack amongst the
tipped chairs. The bleeding had stopped suddenly, as if a faucet that had been
shut off.

16. A MEETING OF SORTS

Pond was charged with murder and placed
in the only cell that the little Sterling police station possessed. Numb, and
bruised from his capture, he sat on the bunk staring at the floor. He had not
even bothered to try to explain that the small freak arm had acted of its own
accord.

They had left Pond his journal and
his pen, but he felt hollow inside and incapable of words. Although he was not
a violent man, he found himself wishing that he had removed the third arm. He
found himself wanting to kill it.

Pond felt something tap his
shoulder. He looked down -- it was the little pale arm. It pointed to the
journal that sat beside him on the bunk. It also pointed to the pen.

"You want to write?"

The doctor was both incredulous
and intrigued. He was hesitant about giving the thing a sharp object, but he
handed it the pen nonetheless. He remained ready to subdue it if it made any
threatening moves.

Pond opened the journal to a blank
page. He had to hold it up so that the short protrusion could reach it with the
pen. The doctor read as the little hand wrote.

"My dear Dr. Pond, there are
not words enough to express my regrets in regards to this dreadful situation.
Please allow me to explain. The creature you called Arabella was, in actual
fact, a walking ocean. The Sixth Ocean. Poor thing had no choice in the matter,
mind you, but upon her death, be it natural, accidental or by some pistol other
than that exceptional one which you had procured, her form, as it was, would
have unleashed an unborn ocean to flood the world as we know it. Imagine if she
had taken a fatal tumble down a staircase, or been trampled by one of those
queer horse-less carriages? Arabella would have been the end of the
world."

The journal trembled in Pond's
hands.

 
"But, all that has been corrected,
though the method and the results were indeed unfortunate. I should like to
have had the opportunity to explain this all in advance. However, interred as I
am in your body, I have only recently achieved a satisfactory quality of
cognizance, and mastering my dreadful little appendage has proven no small
feat. It is perhaps fortuitous that I was capable of taking action when the
opportunity arrived. Please forgive the lack of due warning.

"I should like to add that I
have observed you to be a gentleman of honor, and an adventurer of the highest
caliber. I tip my hat to you, Dr. Pond."

Then the hand signed its name.

"Yours sincerely, Simon
Brinklow."

Pond stared at the words, dazed.
He recognized the signature.

"Heavens," he muttered,
"it
is
you."

The hand gave Pond the pen, then
hung in the air, offering its palm.

Pond gently shook the little hand.
"Mr. Brinklow, it's an honor to meet you."