Imbue

Three Fictionalized Dramatizations of True Events that Probably Never Happened

---

Ripe Fruit

With a satisfied groan he leaned up against the fragrant tree, feeling the blessing of its cool shade on a pleasant day when sun and shadows harmonized. Perhaps it was due; most of the world laid in beds or streets with sickness, but here in God’s country, where the land was left natural in human hands, it was spared. At least, until God saw fit. Nevertheless, with the air free of intolerable grinding noises, one could think, the wheels set in unhindered motion, oiled by the wonderment of the surrounding world.

Each leaf a velvety jade fan, each luscious fruit a ruby adornment, baring heavily on the crown it sprung from. It was a rich tree, presenting its bounty, the gifts it could offer. Sweet, earthy perfume magically drew the soul back to childhood days of carefree play and when curiosity was encouraged. Perfect, undiluted memories contained in the glass jars of the mind, ready to be opened on tranquil days for the admiration each one deserved. And when the trampling gloomy afternoons and bitter evenings came, he could warm himself with those tender glowing recollections.

Kicking off his mud-battered shoes, he stretched his gnarled toes which had long punctured his soiled stockings. What a glorious tree! Never in his life had he seen one so heavily labored with ripe fruit. It seemed the fruit outnumbered the leaves, the poor branches bending towards him as if to beg him to pluck the jeweled fruit and relieve them. The first initiation commenced, courteous of the overburdened tree, as the heavy thud of an apple lured his attention.

He was gracious that he did not have to rise or stretch his arm too far to pick it up. Encouragement followed as another apple was relinquished, this time knocking on his curly mopped head. Stunned at first, he found himself struck by something more than an apple. He picked up his accoster, staring at it as rusty gears strained to turn. So enraptured by the birth of new thoughts, he was oblivious by the apples raining around him.

When he felt a few strike his shoulder and leg, he suddenly looked up at the very moment the entire tree unleashed all its hard apples on top of him.

From the nearby home, a man came running out, hobbling as he tried to put on his second shoe, racing towards the enormous pile of apples where two wretched feet stuck out. Awestruck by the sight up close, he stopped, eyes gaping, wonder soaking into the electricity of his psyche. Each apple gleamed proudly in the sunlight with nary a single one rolling away from the heap.

Such tranquility could not even be touched except by the sharp screeching of a maid, bolting out of the kitchen.

“Sir! Sir!” came the shrill cry.

Skirt hoisted high, the poor plump woman’s small feet pushed against the dirt so frantically that clouds of dust plumed in her wake.

“Sir!” she cried once more, heels plowing grooves into the earth from her sudden stop.

Her ruddy face rivaled the polished apples; the flyaway strands of her dull hair wafted about like broken spider webs caught in a stream of air. Eyes frozen in horror, she let out a raucous, wet gasp as her thin, calloused fingers flew to her face, failing to shield her sight or cover her open cave of a mouth.

She fell to her knees, her voice near to weeping, “Oh Master Newton! Oh God! Wh-wh-what has happened?”

Scratching at his chin, the man beside her replied in awe, “The apples just fell…all at once, it was…well…it was fascinating.”

Burgeoning tears were sucked back as the maid ripped her eyes away from the buried man to the one standing next to her. “Fascinating?! A man has been grievously harmed! Don’t you think we should fetch help or at least a doctor to see if he is alive?”

A resounding, spine-breaking crack took the liberty to answer. Both maid and man jumped back as two thick branches added themselves to the pile of apples.

“Master Newton…” the maid whimpered softly, her shattered gaze turning upwards to the stunned man whose arm she clutched.

Slithering his arm from her grasp, he carefully stepped towards the unfortunate victim. “Truly fascinating,” he whispered to himself, “The way they fell. The way they all fell.”

Scooping up an apple, he held it out and released it from the height of his shoulder, watching it speedily colliding with the ground. Picking it up again he repeated the action, this time holding the apple as high above his head that propped toes and stretched arms would allow. The outcome remained unchanged. Smiling, he giddily tried it a third time, throwing the red fruit high into the air. He nearly leapt when he heard it thud between his feet.

“Truly fascinating!” he clapped, picking more apples up, “I mean when you think about it. Falling? Did you see it?”

“I saw the whole thing,” gritted the unamused maid.

His smile dropped for a moment, creasing with his brow. “Wait, you were in the kitchen. How did you see it from there?”

“Believing I glimpsed a tramp, I was going to get rid of him.”

“I think God took care of that,” he murmured glancing at the motionless feet peeking out of the bushel.

Pursing her lips, the maid tightened her hold on her apron, wringing the fabric. “Tramp or no, there is a dead man under a cart’s worth of apples—”

“I know,” he smiled, “I’ve never seen a tree produce so much fruit and for every one of them to fall at the same time.”

The maid was about to smack the apple out of his hand when she paused. Drawing back her hand, her eyes caught sight of the splintered ends of the branches. Outwardly, they were by all accounts the healthiest looking tree branches one could imagine, but with the innards now exposed, it was clear that at the center a moldy green was eating the yellow marrow of the wood. The fiber had softened within the brittle ring that enclosed it, making it a wonder, given how hollow it must have become, that neither branch broke into a million pieces upon impact.

“Forgive me, but,” the maid ironed out from between her tight lips, “Is this not the very tree Nathaniel has been trying to warn you about?”

“Is it? They are all the same, though I do recall us talking about how full this one looked.”

She drew the air deeply into her lungs, before gently releasing the flow back into the world. “The unusually full tree was the one he’s been telling you needs to be cut down.”

“I don’t know why?” he replied flippantly, throwing several apples into the air to observe their quick descent, “I mean, beside the abnormal abundance it produced, it seems to be a healthy tree with healthy fruit.”

“Look at the branches!” she snapped.

Apples plopping at his feet, he turned his gaze to the branches lying atop each other, the bones displaying their cruel condition. “Yes,” he murmured, “They fell the same way too. Ha! Everything falls!”

“What do we do about the dead man?!” she bellowed.

He rolled his eyes. “Goodness, Moll! What good would fetching a doctor do him now?”

“A priest then,” she snipped, knotting her arms so her hands would not fly to his neck.

“Seems presumptuous to think he would want a priest. Who knows his religion or if he even has one. Had one. He’d probably want a cheap funeral too.” Looking up at her, he tried not to roll his eyes again, lest he cause her to have a stroke. To bury one person was already a burden, the idea of burying two made building a pyre far more appealing.

“All right Moll, we’ll give the man some dignity in death.”

She blew out a sigh, letting the muscles in her face relax. “Thank you, sir. It’s very Christian of you.”

“Well, one must show the church is rubbing off on them, to appease them at least. I think it would be fitting for him to be buried next to Galileo.”

Her arms dropped to her side. “Galileo?”

“Who better to keep the poor man company?”

“Archimedes is already buried next to Galileo as is Cornflower.”

“Goodness that is a crowded lot.”

“Barely room for all three, let alone a full-grown man.”

Bending, he began collecting a few apples from the top of the large stack.

“He could have been plague-ridden.”

“Which is why I’m taking from the top, since it’s doubtful he could have infected them all the way up here.” Then glancing at her, sighed, “When Nathaniel comes back, have him tear down the tree and bury the poor man there. In fact, bury him with several seeds and see if some other good can come out his demise.”

Taken aback, she sputtered, “O-o-other good? What other good came at the expense of this poor man’s death?”

He smiled, wildly gazing at the ripe, hard fruit in his possession. “I don’t know. Or I do! But it would not make sense till I make sense of it.” Then as he hurried off to his quiet space far from the house, he added, “Don’t waste the rest of the fruit, if you take from the top no need to worry about plague. Do as you please with them, I doubt I’ll tire of them.”

“Master Newton?” she sang loudly, causing him to stop and peer at her with his full bewildered attention. “When do you plan on returning to Cambridge?”

---

Warm Glow

Ice is crushing against the boards, each squeal and snap reverberates within my chilled, sore skin. There is no water, no waves, only frozen bodies seeking destruction of all living, moving things. There is no air, only this tundra filled with winds which blow a curtain of thin piercing shards, all rivals of glass. The ropes strain, their fibers do not harden in the winter’s mouth, they do not break…they shatter.

I awake, cold, wet and filled with the urge to touch every inch of myself for the reassurance I have not broken into bits. It cannot be doubted; I am very much whole. The bed sways with the creaking of salty timbers, but when I blink all is steady. The last vestiges of my dream now drowned by the hungry storm outside the window. Sometimes I wonder if we are not all treading on the homes of ancient beasts, who when disturbed awaken with vengeful appetite. They devour so much with untold discontent just as some souls are never satisfied no matter who or what they devour. As one with experience of being consumed, I wish I could save my dearest ones from it, but alas this villa is a silver platter being served to both the beasts outside gnashing their teeth and to the beast inside smiling prettily with their rows of fangs.

Queasy, I roll to my side, running my hand against the icy, naked sheets. No fire, no burning oil, no candle or sunlight to shine against these dark walls. Clocks are broken, the sky hides under thick blankets, making day and night indistinguishable. We have lost the moon, the sun, they have been traded in for flashes of lightning. That is what illuminates the room.

I see the door is ajar, a peek into the dark, silent hallway. I cannot even hear their inebriated voices booming from far below. I yearn and fear the sounds of footsteps, for it will be too late to know if they belong to my comforter or that offender who wishes me comfort. Dear God, would I be so desperate to take it from the beaten creature?

It is in human nature to seek comfort, even when none is given. Only, I am not the mast he should cling to.

Oh, those bitter words bite back. What of the mast I cling to? Where is he? My arms are bare, and the room is cold, freezing my despair. And I am full of it in this large empty space.

My child is in the care of another, hired cheaply with little references. Then again, judgement has no place here. Only grim, taunting inspiration that favors others while all nine backs are turned to me.

I talk little and listen much. Shivering at ghostly tales in German words, aweing at the ferocity other souls work with such quick time to create masterful works in black, inky tongues. The ink drips from my love, his idol, and even that tormented, wounded soul. I cannot even form the ghost of words in my mind. If only I were like my sister, whose hands do not crave quills or paper, merely arms and minds. Her eyes are so bright and too full of love. She loves so much and thirsty creatures drink her up. They know how to find her; she offers so freely, unaware that once licked bare, their tongues will seek flowing rivers of love elsewhere.

Long had I believed we should all drink from those brooks; seek out more so not to drain the beds dry. Hypocrite. I cannot bring myself to stray from my waters, even when they have no issue. They have no issue about anything, none of them do. They fill these trapped days with bloodthirsty skulls, moody prose, phantoms, ghouls and goblins. I cannot find my turn, I cannot find anything and so I listen because their voices gush while mine is dry.

There is a price to listening. My soul sinks in its inadequacy upon hearing their tales brought about in dark hours. My heart burns to find a place among them, but their discussions incinerate my heart into cinders. All this talk of death, they dare bring up life. False, manufactured life. For men know about living, yet they do not know of life. I hear and have witnessed examples of men’s ability to give life. Men are thieves with hollow knowledge. They trap the energy of God, honing and twisting it for themselves for what benefit? None but for themselves.

They cannot grow things from stolen miracles. No, they must use what is available to them, items past their purpose, creatures whose earthly time has been concluded. They are mocked and shocked to be marionettes for scientists who will never admit they envy power.

And so I find myself the hypocrite once more. A bitter one. Encumbered with disappointment.

Rising from the cold bed I am sure to find frost. I go to the window, my arms empty and my head full of jeering. I am no life giver, not on paper, not in flesh. I miss my child, that I cannot deny, nor the ach that a stranger might do what I couldn’t and keep them alive.

I press my forehead to the chilly glass, blotted out with sheets of rain tapping to be let in. So much power and life behind the pane, yet none can capture it. Not even the life giver. Not even the child of two greats. I do not know the secrets. I am supposed to know. My darling, my equal, my heart, my tormentor, he believes great things should come out of the product of two great minds, I feel it is my only allure. He is blinded by it sometimes, he cannot see our intertwining souls; my beauty is my possibility. Not flesh, not mind, not love, not children, my possibility.

I am a failure to him, my parents, my children and worse to myself.

A pin-like pain, a quick snap prickled my tender brow. The dark sky is so overwhelmingly wild with electricity, it attempts to enter through the curtain of rain running down the windowpane. It cannot enter no matter how hard it tries, but it may have assistance.

A fool is in the rain, drenched through its hooded cloak. All that talk of galvanization and their addled brains must have convinced one of them to run outside to capture lightning. Most likely George or his poor doctor friend.

My darling would not be so bold, perhaps if intoxicated enough he could be, but he would not drown his mind. No…my door creaks. I hear steps lumbering, drunkenly into the room. I have no fear, not when I hear his heart. I know it well, its notes, its beats, I could make songs from it, painful loving hymns. The pulses are warm, warmer than his fingers which clench upon my shoulders. I lean back, wanting those arms, that heart to knock its refrains into the column of my spine.

Only, that smell. That rank, putrid smell. Has he been rolling in the carcass of an animal like some foul, foolish dog? And when did he last clip his nails with a sober hand? They are so jagged and sharp, biting into my flesh. What inebriated game is this?

My gaze locks with the reflection in the window. Breath slows carefully. Death has come. It has gripped me, but this face which peeks from beneath the cowl, a faint, transparent, gruesome patchwork of features—Oh, God let me cry out!

My body twists from the claws of the reaper and there I find nothing. Nothing holding me, nothing standing there in the corners, let alone behind me. But I am not alone in this room. There are no shadows, no sounds save for the storm outside. The door to our room is shut though I never heard the catch of the lock. Yet, I am not alone.

There are eyes upon me, curious and waiting. Will it pounce? Where from? Is it moving along the walls?!

Gasping, I turn at the sound of a sharp tap at the window. Lightning flashes in mocking shades of burning gold. The hooded fool stands in view. It must be far away to be fully seen, only…only dear God, it is a massive creature! A giant from times of old; awoken surely by the storm. So tall, so enormous. Those eyes! Those terrible luminous eyes sear into me.

Within the pounding rain, the howling winds carry its voice which says my name.

It is outside. It is inside. Spirit and flesh separated, waiting to be united. It wants me to do it. It’s daring me. Foul unnatural thing, it has made its power known, wrapping its spiritual fingers around my throat, squeezing so my voice cannot rise. It wants me to look. To meet its gaze. I try not to, only my head turns, my chin lifts.

Yellow electric eyes.

The glass should have shattered, but it is only my voice, breaking through the barrier. I run, I dive, hiding myself under the covers. I should have remained on that frozen ship in my dreams, stayed with the dead men encased in ice.

The door creaks open. No turn of the handle, no click of the lock. I hear his heart, his tender, beating heart. I know when it is intoxicated, I know when it dreams. It has pounded its rhythm in my ear in almost every state he has been in, from content to despair. There is joy mixed with exhaustion. I sigh in relief as the echo of his staggering footsteps plod over to the bed. He must have had a good night or perhaps morning.

He does not plop into bed; his body does not fall on the mattress to bounce me into the air. His heart is beating faster. The pace quickens with unnatural speed as if…with terror! Fool, I did not warn him!

I sit up, but too late, realization has strangled my cry. I have united the spirit and the flesh, allowed it to be in the room with a single look. Now at last, here is the evidence the room contained two. This beautiful, horrific creature leans against the bedpost, its electric tawny eyes with bloody pupils bare down on me, curious and piteous.

In the shadows I can make out its shape, a massive creature, an imitation of man, of pieces stitched together by an eager needle. The exposed flesh is carefully cut and grafted together, a perfect specimen of awful demonic design. Its smile reveals the teeth of thirty men plugged into its white gums, all delicately chosen. Strangely, in its presence I feel warm. There is a glow, stronger than a candle’s flame, emerging between us. Where does it come from?

The humorous smile spreads even wider, the corners of its black lips trying, nearly succeeding, to reach its earlobes. No, no, it cannot be coming from this creature. It does not belong to it!

How it continues to smile at me.

Raising a gnarled hand, it presses against its chest, blotting out the glow. “What would you give for it?” it asks in a voice that is too rough to be the devil’s nor powerful enough to be God’s.

I watch its large, nimble fingers push through the stitching. I hear the snapping of the thread, an echo of cords breaking in my soul. The hand vanishes, but the glow beams brighter. A piece of Heaven’s light pulled from the depths of an abomination. It sings psalms from my sorrowful paradise, reverberating with the sound I had fallen in love with, a drumming that proclaimed itself mine, though its master had yet to realize.

The creature holds it out, my ears flooding with the pulsing, my eyes blinded by the radiance and my soul—my soul of two greats—my soul which could give life in blood and ink was set ablaze with wonderous images. I see it all beautifully! Disturbing, ponderous, elegant and divine. A nightmare. A writer’s answered prayer.

“It is easily yours.”

Slowly, dark timbers collapse, one by one, over the visions, concealing them from my starving eyes. The sound, the light, the warmth all held captive in its hand, though it still presents the possibilities before me.

“But,” it warns, “it will come at a price.”

The visions are slipping from my withered grasp, the chance to make something my own, to prove, to give life, to be queen in my own right, loved by the only one who matters, all running like silk through my mind’s fingers. I stare at the hand, my own rising. I am hesitating. My hands are shaking. A warning is weakly trying to beat against my skull. My heart is wincing without telling me why. Fate before me, daring me to grab. Yet if I do, there will be loss.

I jolt, my eyes blinking at the colorful dots dancing in the darkness. A storm taps at the windowpane, begging to be let in as it slides down the glass. No candle or fire or lightning illuminates the room, only I know I am not the only one occupying it.

Bedsheets ruffle, a snort and hitch of breath. “You’re hogging the sheets again,” he drowsily complains as he rolls himself in more blankets.

Grabbing his shoulder, I yank him onto his back, reclaiming some of the stolen sheets.

“My head hurts too much for games, Mary, please let us sleep.”

I cannot bring myself to feign a giggle. I am all too overjoyed to have him back in bed. I nuzzle up to him, my heart lightens when he welcomes me, his arm embracing me, his hand pulling my head to his chest. My head is so heavy, my soul charged, I could shout it from the rooftops, but all I need is paper.

Beneath my ear, pressed against his shirt, I hear it, beating away. I know it from a thousand miles. It’s so hot it could ignite the bed and consume him. I’m crying just thinking about it, I’m not sure what brings up such dark thoughts when I have just dreamt up hope. But I’m crying and smiling, while under my pressed ear I hear the familiar sound I had fallen in love with; a drumming which proclaims itself to be mine, though its master has yet to realize.

---

Speck in a Shell

They had all heard of such creatures—in one variation or another—from their forefathers. Heard about, but never saw, thus many hardly believed those old, fabled stories which depicted living beings that dared travel a world not created for them. The Great Rise, or Great Swelling as the sky dwellers call it, put those arrogant beings in their place. Swallowing up their great numbers, wiping them all out.

Except, the old ones would clarify, for the vessel.

Why spare the vessel? Youngsters often whined.

Afterall, if a species is doomed and must be cleansed, then all should parish as if never to have existed at all. But then again, this tale of the vessel, of the Great Rise, could be nothing more than a cautionary tale. Nothing was satisfactory in the telling of such stories. The size of the vessel often fluctuated, not that it mattered when there were much larger, powerful beings who could have destroyed it with the batting of its tail or crushed it with the might of its jaw or snapped it to pieces with a mere squeeze of its curling appendages.

Their grandfathers were giants, enormous even by comparison to their descendants. Anyone one of them could swallow up a whole island or dismantle mountains and stony pillars that had trespassed into the forbidden domain. How then could a vessel have been spared in a commanded extinction?

This was universally answered by all the ancient ones that never forgot, We could not.

Those wanting elaboration were going to have to live with none. The ancients were gone, every precious, mighty grandfather and grandmother gone, their memory still painfully fresh and gravely mourned. The many left behind wished to hear them speak of times that seemed so mythical, dreamlike and wonderous. To have their massive forms beside them once more with a comforting nudge and, if anything, to see the curious creature floating down into their depths.

An unfathomable sight to behold, it was so tiny, a speck, drifting downwards in the caress of the currents. Countless minds began reeling back to what the ancients told of the vessel after The Great Rise. It had survivors of the doomed species, enough to decide the worth of their continuation. A good chance they would devour each other by next moon tide or die out in a weak struggle to acclimate to a newly molded world. But the titan elders knew, even then when their world settled back in place, they knew the small number would grow.

Still, they assured everyone there was nothing to be concerned with, not then or now. Drowning was not only quick, it was effective. Those damned creatures were of earth, brittle, coarse, even sandy shores would suck their limbs into the suffocating bellies. They could not coexist as some creatures do, slipping between the land, the waves, the clouds and currents. Had they been made to do so, then something far more destructive than The Great Rise would be needed and may that day never come.

No, the forebears chuckled at the timid little ones tucked under their fins, like the sky, their home could never be disrupted by their presence. They would stick to the land where dirt and gravel suited them.

And who was to argue when for two healthy generations nothing of the kind disturbed their home?

None had even seen these creatures described fantastically by old tales woven by dusty memories. There were rumors of course. Gossipers with shocking accounts, crustaceans and fish who swore they nearly escaped death, spoke of sightings. Upright, two-limbed beings bravely walking along the shore. Birds were the worst, only too happy to recount to those who must breach the surface for air of all the things they could see from above. They, too, had seen stiff limbed creatures upon the shore, but these creatures feared the water.

If they must wander into the waves, they go only so far until the ocean reaches halfway up their limbs. It is why they have nets.

Nets. The terrible threat used by taunting children and scolding parents. Keep away from the shores and you’ll never be caught. Better to believe the birds are liars than to find out if they actually are.

Discovery came and no one could call the birds liars now.

Was it a storm that concealed the arrival of this thing? Did it blow it off the shore, spitting it out into the wide waters? Storms were plentiful, loud, disruptive and those with sense would avoid the shallow surface during the rage. Their grandparents never could accustom themselves to storms, shuddering and diving into the depths where the squall could not penetrate. They all swore to their graves it was the price of The Great Rise.

While not unnatural to the young, none could argue of the destructive nature of storms. It could tear into the sky as well as the caverns of darkness, ripping into the murky bottom, dredging and rolling a hellish tirade. Beds were broken, families cast into the unknown never to find each other, disorder reigned leaving only debris and devastation.

Bodies usually decorated the surface after the storms, but what bodies were these? So oddly shaped, long, crooked, appendages disjointed, tails floating listlessly. Pieces were sprinkled about the larger broken bits, hard, but soaked, jagged and sharp. None drifted down, save for this little speck.

The smallest of the wayward, her fin sprang from her head, fluttering like kelp, her split limbs clamped tightly around its small form. A phenomenon to behold, to speak about for ages. Had there not been witnesses, what a sad thing to miss in a whole lifetime. Black, glossy eyes watched, struck in awe of its strange beauty. Those that knew of otters might have sworn it was a distant cousin, they might have, but they did not.

Too delicate, too smooth flesh, pale and fragile. The drop of the sun into a dark blue world. It was beautiful, its descent was graceful, its bubbles perfection.

Bubbles? Air! It was a creature far from air!

Hurry! Hurry!

Porpoises jetted against the currents, their slick bodies smoothly cutting through the lethargic underbelly of their oceanic home. They began swirling tightly in their group, the echo of their sharp clicks, weaving like a net around the poor creature. Up and quick, hurling a cyclone piercing through the sun bleach layers of their cold world.

Beneath, the bottom of the sea broke free, an indigo shadow rising.

The surface shattered with a gush of thick droplets, the poor Speck’s eely tail deflating, matting around her head, suffocating her. The porpoises nudged her about with their portly foreheads and fins, a desperate attempt to keep her afloat. Any drifting debris was too far to collect, too dismantled to hold her. She was being sucked down, slipping from the silky bodies that swam around her.

Too late, she had slipped under! What to do?! What to do?!

Bursting into the sunny air, in a rain shower that could eclipse the storms, emerged the leviathan. Enormous and gentle, the descendant of beings who would have laughed at such a small frame. It craned its long, limber neck, lowering its frightful head to nudge the Speck to the center of its back where she would not slide.

The porpoises duck under, swimming miles beneath their superior’s belly, clicking and clacking in jubilation. Above, the birds came in masses, circling heavy as a thundercloud, blocking the sun so the Speck would not feel its sting. They squawked and shrilled, drawing the porpoises to the surface, alarming them that the Speck and its kind could not endure the sun.

Their flesh is fragile. It burns! It sears! Turns the color of fire and spreads with pain. We know, the birds cried, their feathers decorating the winds, we know, for we see what you have never.

None who dwelled in the waves of Prussian blue could argue, only their deceased forebears had seen such creatures. Old stories were hard to rely on. All from the speediest to the colossal were at the mercy of the sky dwellers’ knowledge.

We can help, the birds shrilled again, for we have not seen one make it this far. They are timid of the waves, the murky abyss, she is the only one to make it the furthest. Look how she shines even in the dimmed light!

And indeed, she glistened. Her head-tail, drying off in the torrent breeze the flock produced, became a river of shimmering starlight. She awoke, blinking, bewildering the inquisitive porpoises observing her. Her eyes were not dark, not depthless. No, something far more magnificent, she carries the sea in her gaze. Her pearly limbs stretch out, flippers that split into five, each able to bend, to hold, caress. What a wonderous being!

See how she gently strokes her savior, how fearlessly she watches the porpoises, the great space of endless blue. Her tail falls about her, curling, cascading to her whim. What a strange thing.

Wings tired, the birds broke their encompassing group, flying off to be replaced by another pitying flock. The sun struck her, illuminating her, a bright star floating on the waters, if only she could stay that way for all to see, if only the warm sun did not hate her. Night at least was friendlier, the moon kinder, how she bathed in the moonbeams, the starlight. Did they call to her? Tell her stories of how once stars rode on the back of the ocean-dwellers ancient kin?

Dolphins had heard from their cousins about the Speck and were awestruck in the midnight hour of the glowing creature being carried on the back of the oceanic giant. The birds had long gone, exhausted from the shifts of flight, hot from the rays they prevented from touching her. A shame, for the dolphins had many questions and were too impatient to hear from their quieter cousins.

While news of the Speck brought curious creatures from far distances in droves, the birds were growing reluctant. When their members began to drop, either from exhaustion or expiration and quickly snacked upon by one of the sharper-toothed spectators, they screeched out a fair warning. They were not shade-makers, nor would continue so, even out of mercy.

The leviathan, too, was growing weary. The blistering rays of pure light were roasting its flesh and not even shallow submersion offered relief. It had been suffering for some time, bearing it for the sake of the Speck, after all it hardly weighed a thing. Yet hunger rumbled in its belly, loneliness for home and family raked in its heart. Its kind was never meant to linger long in the sun-drenched surface.

Dipping its head into the water, it sang out its lament.

My family calls me in the cold valleys yet my heart calls to save the helpless mite on my back. To deny one for the other will only bring death. The murderer will be murdered, struck down with guilt. The sea a ghostly graveyard echoing with songs of lost hope, the diming of strange beauty never to grace us again.

From the chasms of blackness, bursting with hellish plumes of volcanic heat, where the monstrous fragile creatures swim in search of food or a mate, often finding one in the other, the hallowed cry filled their murky currents.

Bulbous, blind fish with slack jaws overstuffed with spire fangs, halted. Their bodies tingling with vibrations, provoking electric streams of bioluminescent glow to flash in tandem to the song. In the bowels of the ocean came forth an imitation of a midnight clear, darkness punctured with aquatic stars twinkling.

A lengthy, boneless arm stretched out, coiling its grip along the ground of its cavernous home. It pulled its enormous pillar-shaped body forward, unfurling more of its squirming limbs, each one searching, feeling. It crawled along the bottom, the graveyard of the ancient ones. It groped and writhed, dredging and discarding until at last it came upon a hard corpse.

Securing the clasp, scalloped edge dead within its grasp, it began its agile ascent. Out of the endless lapis shadows, it emerged, breaking apart coral beds, strangling sharks, brushing against young whales. Dipping its head beneath the waters, the leviathan saw the beast which rivaled their size, jettisoning to the light blue shallows it had always avoided. And saw too, tangled in its grip, the old mollusk.

It had once been rumored that The Great Rise happened because the old mollusk dared to swallow the moon and boast the rounded brilliance in its mouth. It was hard to say if that was true, although many believed it was, for they had also heard that during The Great Rise, the old mollusk became so frightened it burrowed itself deep into the seabed, splintering it with the gorges that now ran as veins in the deep.

Now, the old mollusk was dead, like all the other ancient ones, it closed itself never to open again, never to bury itself again. The rest had been devoured, picked to the bones by time and bottom feeders. Yet, the shell survived, as mighty, broad, magnificently curved as though at anytime it would open once more.

The young whales rose to the surface, keeping their distance with the other creatures. All watched the narrow head burst like a volcano in climax through the watery top, sending mammoth waves over spectators near and far. The Speck slid and held onto the ridges of the leviathan’s hide, sputtering and crying with each new onslaught of salty-laced crashes. The great black eye of the beast hovered, trying to locate the mite resting on its rival. It was indeed a speck, but what a beautiful speck.

Never have I seen something shaped with such fragility, it must have come from the moon to shine as it does, the beast thought. Well old mollusk, you may hold the moon once more in your mouth.

Wrapping its long arms around the ancient shell, the beast pried it open with a great crack. Muscles and membranes stretched to snapping, the veils and strands of a life long gone, a feast for the birds. In a fury they took their reward, swooping down, fighting for a taste of ancient flavor. Gulls were the worst.

Picked clean, the beast released its hold; the hollowed-out body floating perfectly. Satisfied, the beast glanced at its adversary and slunk back down into the deep to nestle in its cave where only the slugs kept company.

The leviathan swung its head to the Speck, bearing its tusk-sized molars. The little limbs of the Speck embraced as far as she could around the tooth, hanging on as the enormous head roved over to the floating shell. With a plop the Speck fell into the empty husk of the old mollusk.

Now, content, the leviathan disappeared below the depths, its burned flesh cooling beneath the calm waves. It set off to rejoin with its kind, but its thoughts did not follow.

All agreed, it was the perfect arrangement. The Speck did well in the home of the ancient one, the sun’s ray did not harm her and the shell was so buoyant it became an excellent addition to the dolphins’ entertainment. They bunted the shell in teams of ten, seeing who could make it spin and get the Speck to let out that shrill which could have been a laugh from their own throats. The young whales keenly joined in, occasionally bunting the shell too far, the porpoises had to retrieve it.

Stingrays glided against the edges, coaxing out a tender stroke along their backs from her firm tentacles. For a lark many tried to see who could leap over it, a challenge not extended to the dolphins who still took it upon themselves to prove they were superior.

Nothing could be done about the sky-dwellers. The birds were a law unto themselves, yet they proved their usefulness. They seemed to know what the Speck needed. When the shell was open enough, they dropped berries and other fruits, things which usually sunk and dissolved under the waves. Not to be outdone in generosity, the porpoises began bringing the Speck fish, coral and crabs. She ate the fish and crab, but seemed enamored with the coral, letting the fiery rays roast them until they shined.

No one minded who gave gifts or where they came from, seeing the Speck’s delighted face was well worth the hunt. That is, until a larger sky-dweller arrived bearing a bizarre, shapely gift. The delight which beamed from the Speck casted a long cold shadow over the other creatures. Suddenly, her gaze began darting at all sides of the horizon, never once gracing those who took her in.

What this gift was or what it was for was not made clear, but there were times when a few caught her putting the item to her lips. It wasn’t until a porpoise surfaced during a rainstorm that it saw the Speck collecting the falling water in the gift’s wide mouth. The creatures had never seen her drink the water which surrounded her, but during light rains many spotted her holding out her arms, opening her mouth, or lapping up what was collected in her home.

The large bird came twice more, delivering more of the same gift, sending the Speck near to weeping.

This would not do and when the large bird came swooping down, a marlin snagged its claw holding it until it answered the question of the strange gifts.

Of course it comes from her kind, the large bird cawed, they collect water to drink from it. They cannot drink from the sea.

But where, many wanted to know, how far?

Not far.

The marlin gasped, freeing the bird. Black eyes stared at each other in horror. The Speck’s kind could be near. But she was no longer their kind. The sea had claimed her, she was theirs.

They warned away the large bird and swam the shell further out to sea, hoping it would be the end of that.

The Speck did not seem to mind, though it cradled its water-filled gifts on long days. The Speck grew bolder, jumping from the shell, holding onto the porpoises or resting on the backs of young whales. After many moon tides, the leviathan, tugged by the currents which had strung its heart to the Speck, returned.

Is the Speck growing? Look, its shape is not the same.

Two otters, big as dolphins, swam up to the shell, slipping inside before anyone could stop them. They had heard of the Speck and seeing the leviathan pass their home, took the chance to ride along its back to see if the rumors were true. Unlike with the other creatures, creatures who took her in as one of their own, the otters were welcomed instantaneously. The Speck petted and cuddled them with great pleasure as they nuzzled against her.

It is what they do, the otters answered offering the Speck clams and oysters, cracking them open for her. They don’t get very big, but none stay small, they just take longer. But my, this one grows so wondrously. Look at its pelt. Like shiny, sunlit pebbles, it’s the longest we’ve seen.

The otters stayed on telling more of the Speck’s kind. It is not a tail on their head, but a long pelt if cut will simply grow back. It’s not just arms they have, nor tentacles, but fingers and hands, which work as good as the scrumptious octopi. They had seen many of the Speck’s kind, noting that some were kind, others cruel, all hungry and all curious.

The otters were a wealth of knowledge much better than the birds, but they were becoming far too familiar with Speck. They slept with her in the shell, held her hand, taught her how to float on her back, to pry open shells. They knew the best secrets were found in the ugliest of mollusk and how those eyes, so filled with blue, gleamed when discovering a pearl in a hard craggy body.

This would not do. The otters talked too much of the land, egged the Speck to look towards the horizon.

Is that where they planned to take her, many fearfully discussed amongst themselves. Either for themselves or to return her, it all meant the same. And it would not do.

In the blackest, stillest night, great razor mouth sharks slid through the cold streams to the shell, a wave barely breaking. It was done soundlessly, perfectly quick, in two precise seconds, the otters were gobbled up.

The Speck awoke without a clue; the only things left behind were good riddance and rows of pearls. The Speck was sad for a time, but the dolphins tried to amuse her. She could hold onto the stingrays and let them take her under the water then back up again. The whales batted her back and forth, yet the brilliance had become a dim glow, a lingering vestige.

Did she miss the otters? They were no good. The leviathan may have believed it was taken too far, it was nonetheless necessary.

Clouds were gathering. They had grown complacent, ignoring signs in their confusion over the change in the Speck. It had been avoided once or twice, but not all storms could be outswum.

The waves were rising high, hovering over the Speck who closed herself up in the body of the ancient mollusk. With a great walloping fist, the waves plunged the shell down into the pits of the sea. The current cut and whirled, none could reach her, not without being pulled into the vortexes. It was a terrible, chaotic hurricane, not seen in years. How their ancestors would have dived down in fright.

A shadow moved in slow, careful strides towards the shell, pouring out bubbles. It opened its wide mouth and swallowed it up.

Hours passed, the waters calmed. Bodies and clouds of sand polluted every blue corner. Those living waited around the rotund whale who looked very ill. With a terrible gurgling in its stomach, it made for the surface. Into the air, in a rain of bile, out shot the shell, skidding across the ocean.

You idiot! many cried, smacking the huge lummox with their tails, before they sped after her trying to keep the skipping shell in sight, losing it for a day or two.

When at last they spotted her again, they found her in the shallows, miles from a coastline. Unharmed and well, to everyone’s great distress she had found new playmates in turtles. She clung to their backs, squealing as she had once done a long time ago. She could even mimic their movements, conquering the water with every gentle stroke of her limbs.

The marlins and the rays nudged the turtles away from the Speck while young whales bellowed out taunts and rights of ownership. Just as the dolphins came to collect what was theirs, the whole ocean began to quake. Waves swallowed waves, sands upon the shoals shifted as the coastline broke and rose high above the pitiful collection of younglings.

An ancient still lived! A turtle of all things, those creatures who flaunted their ability to go from sea to land.

That does not belong to you, it creaked, its warning booming against the sky.

Frightened, the dolphins quickly gathered the Speck, pushing her into the shell and swimming away with her.

Shadows followed, clinging to her face, eating away at her glow. She no longer collected the rain or played with her corals. She did not stroke the rays or the fishes; she curled up, a grey pearl in a shell.

The leviathan returned to check on the Speck, relieved it had survived the storm, but curious as to why the Speck no longer shined. None said much, certainly not of turtles or ancient ones.

Sun and moon rose one after the other, changing while the Speck did not, leaving everyone to wait cluelessly in the waters.

No one knew how much time had passed, each day was much like the other, only growing heavier with concern. Then the birds began causing a ruckus. Raising its head, the leviathan saw the last of an ancient race approaching. It batted away the dolphins and porpoises, felt not a prick from the stingrays or marlins on its shell. No jagged tooth or sharp fin could pierce its weathered hide.

That, it echoed in the sky, does not belong to you and if you are only keeping it for its beauty, then you will not have it long. Give it back, its brilliance is not meant for you.

The young whales balked, chastising the old turtle. Nothing but barnacles fill your skull.

It paid no heed, instead it gently turned back until close to evening it was far out of sight and the jeering ceased. The ancients knew nothing of the world today, they said to each other, she will come round. We’ll let the birds bring her fruit.

But the leviathan lingered, its hide tainted with blisters. It had watched the ancient turtle, heard its raspy words, felt the pain they stabbed into its heart. Inside the shell the Speck would always be safe, always cared for, always loved. And yet it knew a speck it may be, the shell, the ocean would not be big enough for her.

Under the calm, drowsy night, the leviathan quietly pushed her out, heading further to the horizon. Gulls favored the land, so to find them in great number would be to find land. Two days into its journey a young whale caught up with it, its fin nibbled by sharks, its lament echoing in the currents. Everyone was wondering where the Speck had been carried off to, search parties had been sent in all corners. Some not far behind.

Gulls were present in the sky, a sign that burned the leviathan’s heart. It brushed past the whale, pushing the shell as far beyond its reach. It closed its ears. It could not listen to the questions, the accusations nor the pleading.

The Speck did not belong to them.

Others were arriving, growing aware of the leviathan’s intentions, splashing and smashing into the great creature. If their words would not suffice action would, though it had about the same effect. The leviathan continued, spotting a shore as large as the ancient one in the distance. Others spotted this too.

The sea became a cyclone of madness, creating a thick layer of temperamental foam around the Speck’s shell, all no use. Specks, uglier and far inferior, were gathering on the shore.

No, the creatures pleaded with the leviathan, she cannot return to them. They cast her away to us. She will burn them with her brilliance. They will eat her. They will kill her.

Enough!

The leviathan rammed its head into the back of the shell. It flew out on a wave of bubbling foam, gliding with such speed no dolphin could match. The Speck, standing, held onto the scalloped edges of the old mollusk, her pelt waving in the current of air. The winds quieted, the waves simmered as she landed on the shore under a frothy carpet. The most beautiful creature ever to behold.

The leviathan was not welcomed in former company anymore, not even by its own kin. The birds would give it news, mostly how the stingrays and dolphins skirted the coastline, hoping she would come back. All were lonely, all were wishful. Sentiments the leviathan understood yet was forbidden to share.

During its lonesome journey, the leviathan came across the ancient turtle. It was on a journey of its own, the end tide, the graveyard calling to its weary, worn bones.

Drifting by the leviathan, its shadow looming over it, the old voice creaked, My sons tell me her kind treats her like an ancient one. The gift the ocean brought to mankind on the bubbles. So beautiful, it makes the wind breathless. Ho ho, her kind revere her more than you young ones ever could. She will live long and longer still. But I fear her longing for the ocean has been instilled in others of her kind. Beware of that time, the ocean will no longer belong to us.

© 2026 E.R. Dyal/Escape by the Fireside

---

Thank you all for joining me by the fireside, I hope I have provided a little escape for you this month. You can support my channel by reading my other works, liking or commenting. If you’d like to get first dibs on a story, then please subscribe.

Thank you again and see you next time by the fireside.