Ella June’s Alien

by A.M. Stickel

     Halloween in Napper’s Holler was just like any other day, thanks to Father Joe Murphy. The Holler’s children did not dress up or play pranks. Even though few of them were Catholic, they went about their chores and minded their manners out of respect for the priest.

     Ella June Ames, the good father’s twenty-eight-year-old housekeeper, had been the first child baptized in the tiny parish. Pappy Ames, who preferred his “likker” hard and his sermons soft, had appreciated a good yarn, which none of the itinerant preachers had been able to deliver. He’d not wanted to hear about hellfire and brimstone, but paradise and real-life parables. Having the child he’d found abandoned in the piney woods one day baptized, he’d figured, guaranteed him a front row seat for sermons, if not an “in” with St. Peter himself.

     St. Elmo’s was a clapboard chapel supported by its proximity to the sturdy brick cottage serving as Father Joe’s residence. Ella June’s job was to keep both scrubbed and orderly. She’d spent her days doing so since she’d turned thirteen—the year her caretaker pappy (God rest his soul), who’d left her their humble cabin next to the cottage, went to meet his Maker. She’d decided to devote her life to the Lord’s service. Many miles from any nunnery, she’d done the best she could, given the Holler’s isolation.      

     Knock, knock!

     Ella June sat bolt upright, her bedsprings squeaking, sure she’d imagined the raps on her cabin door. A greenish radiance, unlike familiar lantern light, crept around the door’s edges.

     “Who is it?” Ella June asked, her quavery voice startling her in the pre-midnight stillness. Fumbling for her lantern, she lit it, pulled on her threadbare robe, and padded barefoot to the door. Slowly, she put her ear to the wood, but quickly pulled it away from the abnormally cold surface.

     “Open up…or else!” The gargled warning made her skin crawl.

     Ella June gasped and crossed herself. Her hands trembled as she draped her rosary beads around her neck and grabbed the Lives of the Saints Father Joe had given her after her Confirmation. For insurance, she found and lit her white baptismal candle, dripped a pool of wax near her closed door, and stuck the candle where it could safely burn down.

    Then Ella June sighed in resignation, thinking, It must be a disrespectful prank. Well, I’ll just show the little scamps a thing or two. Running lightly to her bed, the lanky woman stripped the top sheet off and tucked it around her, then pushed up the window beside her bed and climbed out, dropping to the mud below. I’m going to scare the stuffing out of those younguns.

     Suddenly, the reassuring candle light poofed out, and Ella June heard, Slide…plop! Slide…plop!

     Tempted to peep over the windowsill, she obeyed her instincts not to do so. The moonlit clearing showed the area around her cabin littered with dead skunks, possums, deer, boar, and even a bear cub.

     “Sweet Savior! This ain’t no prank.” said Ella June before she could stop herself, all the while slipping in the mud and tripping over the pitiful, bloodless bodies of God’s critters.

     Having left her window ajar in her haste, she now regretted the oversight. A glowing, pulsating, amorphous mass dripped over her cabin sill, its slimy, sea-stinking tendrils seeking the ground.

     The terrified housekeeper, trailing the flapping sheet, fled to holy ground: St. Elmo’s chapel. She dared not scream again, lest her pursuer hear. With no trick-or-treaters or their folks about, and Father Joe away seeing a sick granny deeper in the woods, Ella June knew she was on her own.

     Praying silently, the woman pulled her mop from the back corner of the dim chapel, where only the red eye of the sanctuary candle burned in its glass holder. Moonlight filtered through one stained-glass window. She stomped on the mop to clean her muddy feet, not sure the creature could see her tracks, but not about to chance it. Lingering smells of incense and beeswax soothed her heart enough to stop its racing. She mounted the pulpit. There, she rested her hands on the old, worn Bible.

    Tick…tick…tick. Father Joe’s clock at the back of the church counted off the seconds as Ella June listened for, and finally heard, Slide…plop!

     A shimmering green film enveloped the windows, and the roof creaked under an unnatural weight, as if the chapel were underwater. The housekeeper exhaled, relieved the sturdy old beams and secure door held. Her ears rang, however, and an uneasy weariness settled upon her.

     “Just git!” What Ella June meant to holler bravely came out a harsh whisper. She gripped the Bible harder.

     “I’ve come to save you from All-devouring Darkness.” The terrible watery-voiced thing had heard her!

     “I’m already saved, thank you,” Ella June snapped in a normal voice, adding, “and I don’t trust no ‘missionary’ what goes about killing helpless critters.”

     “Yet your kind kills them for meat; I needed their primitive essence to form my own here. I’ve come to bring you an important message...and to request a special favor of you.”

     “Pappy always said, ‘If it ain’t good news, it ain’t worth hearin’.’”

     “I’ve traversed vastnesses of the Deeps at great risk to my own salvation, with this news: You and your world have been judged and found wanting…unless one of you is willing to give birth to the Truth. I have come to tell you that you, my virgin daughter, have been selected.”

     “You ain’t my kin. If you was, you’d know Napper’s Holler ain’t like the rest of the world. We already have and follow the Truth, born of a virgin ages ago. It teaches us not to judge folk the way everyone else does. Those who do can just go back to where they came from.”

     “This is the very reason I’ve come to you. Napper’s Holler being a reality apart means you can all belong to a future reality where you could evolve to a state of perfection like mine.”

     Before Ella June Ames could say how not evolving was fine with her, the clock struck twelve. Bowed beneath the overwhelming weight of Otherness, she stepped from the pulpit and sank, exhausted, to her knees before the altar, the Bible cradled in her arms. Then, for the first time since encountering the Alien, she felt warm, even hot. Soon, brilliant green light bloomed outward from her to fill the chapel. Ella June began to write—ever faster—of her encounter, using a finger dipped in her own metamorphosed blood.

     The next morning, on the feast of All Saints, Father Joe found his housekeeper’s withered, bloodless husk, wrapped in the sheet, at the foot of the altar. Her soul had departed the Holler, her essence supplying the fuel for the ‘missionary’s’ exodus.

Felicity

A.M. Stickel

     “Off . . . offa me, Felicity!” Keeper Will removed Father Joe’s fat brindle cat from his chest. “Ah-choo, ah . . . ah . . . AH-CHOO!” For a second Napper’s Holler’s newest citizen almost regretted trading in his scratchy wool revenuer’s suit—now lining Felicity’s basket—for homespun. He didn’t miss his old lowlander handle of ‘Agent Will Throckmyer,’ though. Will sat up in bed and groped for a kerchief.

     Edwin Thomas leaned over in his hammock, wiped the sleep from his own eyes, and admonished his housemate, “Felicity knows her place and her place knows her. By Holler standards she has a fine pedigree. Her great-grandsire was Felix, our ship’s cat. He mated with Felicia, whose feral ancestors welcomed the Holler’s first humans.”

     “Why does the impious little minx so favor St. Elmo’s stone holy water font? Instead of crossing themselves when they come into church, worshippers are forced to pet her—she hisses and growls at anyone who forgets!” responded Will, mopping his dripping nose.

     “My friend,” said Edwin, “she claimed her special spot as a kitten. Overcome by a summer’s day thirst, she lapped up every drop of blessed water and laid herself down for a well-deserved nap. Ever since, she’s made regular church attendance a habit. The children assume her one sacramental quaff bestowed upon Felicity unusual powers. She always knows which of them hides a slingshot or a snowball, and can evade the miscreant by vanishing instantly.”

    “Those same children keep the myth of your piracy alive, Edwin. This pest’s only power is annoying me in any way she can, purring away while she does her mischief,” retorted Will, shaking his finger at the cat, who blissfully wadded his tangled, paw-muddied sheets.

     “I’d watch what you say about his cat to Joe. He claims all of his sermons have to pass the Felicity Test. He discards any that put her to sleep, or even make her yawn. In her he finds the ideal critic, most especially because of her fascination with the Holy Spirit. The Spirit hovering over or behind or next to him, he’s sure, always receives her undivided attention. No mouse or fly can distract her when thus enraptured.”

     “Oh, pish and tosh, Edwin! If Felicity were reverently inclined, she’d stop eating the holy wafers I put out to cool. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to put in another batch on account of her.” Will dumped the cat off his cot, and rose, purposely splashing water on her as he washed his face at the basin. Thus rebuffed, she fluffed her colorful coat and exited the window with an indignant swish of her tail.

     Edwin Thomas laughed and proceeded with his own ablutions. “Mark my words, Will. One of these days, she’ll gain your favor. Felicity is one talented, persistent puss.”

     With Father Joe away on another of his home visits to a distant stead, Will was hard at work honing his skills over a hot stove. His cooking had improved since coming to Napper’s Holler, and he was unashamed to reap the benefits. Eggs and bacon sizzling in the skillet, and a bowl of hot biscuits fresh out of the oven made up for the previous hour spent mopping the chapel floor. He didn’t notice Father Joe’s cat pad into the rectory kitchen with her latest plaything, until . . .

     Plop!

     Felicity released an eyeball from between her teeth, watching it roll across the pine floor, and stop between Will’s bare feet. When he continued to ignore her, she darted between his legs to paw the bloodshot thing back and forth between her paws. Then her gleaming gaze took in his panic as he caught sight of her toy . . . and recognized to whom it belonged.

     Once Will stopped dancing, he collected himself enough to remove the food safely to the counter and cover it with a towel. This done, he bent down and carefully lifted the eye with a spatula to drop it into his second fresh kerchief of the day, and then his pocket. “Well, Felicity . . . ?” he began.

     Satisfied, Felicity rose and ran toward Saint Elmo’s chapel with Will in pursuit. Paws covered in gold dust left a shiny trail across both the rectory kitchen and the chapel floor he’d sweated so hard to clean. Grabbing his broom and sweeping as he went, Will followed cat tracks outside to the late Ella June’s cabin near the rectory, where he found the eye’s owner . . . and another cat perched on the man’s unmoving chest.

     “Ferocious, down!”

     Felicity’s lean, orange-eyed brother, coal-black and as tall as his sister was wide, crouched lower and glared at the territorial interloper, a growl rising from his throat. The yowl waiting behind the growl, however, was stifled by the eye Ferocious mouthed.

     “Mooney?” asked a stunned Will, already sure the old miner—who’d claimed the cabin by simply moving in—was dead. The body sprawled in the center of the room’s gold-dust-coated floor. Several lumpy bags, one clawed open, lay in the corner beside Ella June’s old cot. A chair was overturned, and the miner’s gear was missing. Will walked to the window and noticed Nudge, Mooney’s scrawny mule, was not out back as usual.

     Ferocious growled again, distracted by Felicity, who’d clambered onto the open gold-dust bag and rolled in it, purring. Will cautiously backed up, clutching his broom and thinking, One bash over the head, and this Satan’s spawn’ll spit out the eye.

     Will wasn’t sure what to do with the second eye once he recovered it, but common decency urged him on. He waved the broom at Ferocious, urging him off of his perch atop the prone miner. The animal spat out the eye, his pupils dilating in a demonic glance from Will to Felicity. While the tom decided whom to bite first, he paused long enough for Will to take a closer look at the body.  

     From the gaping chest protruded an assortment of springs and wires resembling clockworks, not human innards. A huge ruby sat in the position where the heart would normally be. Will ignored both cats, who’d definitely decided to fight each other; the siblings circled and cursed, their yowls and hisses rising and falling enough for an entire herd of cats at war.

     Will, however, turned his attention to the eye, a close inspection of which revealed it to be artificial. When his trembling fingers removed the companion eye from his pocket, he discovered it matched. Time to let Sheriff Lightfoot, Doc Starr, and Edwin in on this mystery, thought Will, fearlessly swinging his broom at both cats. “You two, out . . . out . . . . out! I can’t have you destroying evidence. GIT!” Will picked up the wash basin from the stand beside the cot to put an end to Felicity’s dispute with her brother. As the liquid flew, he noticed it was not water, but oil the color of Ferocious’ fur. When the stuff hit their coats, the two cats lit out as if their tails were afire.

     Will, conscience and stomach complaining, headed for Doc Starr’s.

     “Keeper, what brings you along so early in the day?” asked Chet Lightfoot. He and his very pregnant wife sat sipping tea in Doc’s parlor. April Talloaks Lightfoot was quiet, her tan cheeks gone pale. The puddle of ‘birth waters’ at her feet and her stoic expression evidenced she wouldn’t enjoy what came next. Chet, who had no idea either, simply patted her hand and poured her tea.

     “I need you and Doc and Edwin to check out a situation Felicity led me into—one I don’t like the look of, Chet,” said Will, knowing it had come out all wrong, but hoping the sheriff understood anyway.

    “What’s more important than our first baby, Keep?” Chet said mildly.

    “These,” said Will, pulling the wrapped eyeballs from his pocket, and failing to notice April’s swoon. Chet, who did notice, merely adjusted April on the couch cushions and studied the objects nestled in the cloth, which seemed to look right back at him.

     Will quickly refolded the cloth when Doc Starr stepped out of his exam room grinning, Chet’s bloodhound, Lulu, cradled in his arms. The droopy-eared dog’s front paws and jowls were bandaged, and her face was more melancholy than ever. “I warrant Lulu will avoid porky-pines from now on,” offered Doc, taking in his visitors, especially April’s state. “We’d better see to your missus next, Chet. . . .And your complaint, Keeper—another cat scratch?”

     “Go on ahead with Mrs. Lightfoot, Doc. I can wait. Felicity’s been up to no good again, and I can’t make any sense of something weird she’s found.” Will gulped and flushed. Everyone knew how crazy Father Joe’s cat made him, Doc included. The doctor smiled, shook his head, and motioned Chet to carry his wife into the exam room. He handed the whimpering hound to Will, giving her one last pat on the head.

     Will sat back on the sofa with a lapful of Lulu. She rolled soulful eyes up at him, and, even though he thought about showing her the eyeballs to see what she’d do, he resisted. When he pictured the poor thing limping along the track of an insoluble mystery, he realized Chet might not take kindly to this abuse of his Lulu.

     By the time Will returned to the rectory, the ruins of his breakfast, except for the biscuits, lay on the floor where Felicity and Ferocious—allies long enough to steal food—had left them. With him were Chet’s fifteen-year-old brother, ‘Deputy’ Jim Bob Lightfoot, and the sheriff’s second-best hound, Lily. While Lily, still a pup and always hungry, cleaned the floor, Will and Jim Bob polished off the biscuits with some mint tea and home brew to wash them down.

     Jim Bob offered Will a chaw, which he politely declined. “We’d best go to Mooney’s cabin, and I’ll show you the rest of Felicity’s discovery,” said Will.

     The youngster had tried to act cool when shown Mooney’s eyeballs. But, on sight of the body, his eyes went wide and he took a swig from his pocket flask. His hound pup skittered and sniffed, more excited by the cat spray and the bits of black and brindle fur than the body. “This can’t be Mooney, Keeper. It’s some kind of machine. Whoever took the mule left this here, I’ll warrant, but why’d they leave the gold?”

     “Felicity knows, but she can’t tell us, Jimmy. I wish she could,” said Will. “I want Edwin’s help to solve this. He interprets strange matters like no one else, and can usually make sense out of them.”

    “Teacher Thomas is a sharp one. He always knew what I was up to before I did,” said Jim Bob. “Father Joe ought to be here too; yonder contraption might be the devil’s work.”

     “Maybe we can talk Edwin into letting school out early,” said Will, reinserting Mooney’s eyes into their sockets.

     “I’m already here,” came a familiar voice from outside the cabin window, “thanks to Felicity. She joined my class with Ferocious not far behind, both of them covered in scratches and oil, and minus some fur. I thought you might’ve finally tried to tar and feather those two like you’re always threatening to do, Will.”

     The cat sat on a corner of the window sill, preening, and Edwin Thomas’ scarred face appeared behind her. Espying the body, he boosted his lanky frame through the window. “My, my, what have we here?”

    “Dunno,” said Will and Jim Bob together.

    Felicity gave the leashed hound pup a warning hiss—convincing Lily to remove her tender nose and wriggling body from under the window. Once the dog was out of her way, the cat jumped to the floor, regally padded to the open bag of gold dust, and began to roll in it and purr.

     “Come to think of it, Ol’ Mooney never was much of a talker,” mused Edwin.

     “Nor an eater . . . in fact, I never saw him eat,” added Jim Bob, counting off the miner’s oddities on his fingers. “He ignored wimmin and likker.” (The lad’s voice resounded with the sincere disbelief of one who had only recently been initiated into the latter two, yet considered himself an expert on both.) “He never went to church, n’ he hated cats!”

     Will decided to steer the conversation away from his favorite pitfalls—women and cats. “Right! I never knew a man to keep so close to his own company, even to the point of ignoring his mule. Poor Nudge had to feed and water himself. What kind of miner would neglect his most valuable ally?”

     “An inhuman one,” said Edwin, “although it wouldn’t surprise me if there was an actual person involved. The situation doesn’t bode well for the Holler. There could be other machines resembling people . . . or even animals . . . undiscovered as yet . . . among us.”

     Felicity hissed. “All right, Felicity, I take back the part about animals.” Edwin stooped to give the cat a few comforting strokes. His efforts seemed to have the opposite effect, for her hackles rose, and she turned her amber gaze toward the ceiling. Everyone else did likewise. The air crackled with static and an almost subsonic hum, then stank with the ammonia stench of bladders emptying, only one of them feline.

     “Think she’s seein’ what’s invisible to us,” whispered Jim Bob, “like, maybe this here machine’s spirit?”

     Felicity glared at the lad, edged over to the pup and batted her tail with sheathed claws. Lily turned, and found herself eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose with Felicity. A flash of understanding passed between them, and the cat sniffed, launching herself through the open cabin door, Lily hard on her heels. The three men were forced to follow the cat’s lead, spooked by her actions and the cabin’s vibrations.

     WHOOSH! Ella June’s old haunts went up in glorious chartreuse-and-indigo flames. The group, luckily already several yards away, turned as one and stared. A huge silvery object, larger than both the nearby chapel and rectory put together, hovered silently over the charred remains, out of which molten gold trickled.

     A tin bucket lying in the yard popped and pinged as it caught and held most of the golden stream. When they looked back up from this distraction, the strange flying machine was gone, and, with it, all evidence (including the eyeballs) of Mooney’s true nature.

     Surprised to be alive, the animals and their humans paused to breathe summer’s sweetness. Ferocious, purring raggedly, padded from the underbrush and startled Jim Bob by rubbing against his legs in male-to-male recognition.

     “Well, Felicity, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” said Edwin, helping the cat down from the tree branch where she’d managed to levitate herself while the men were gaping at the sky and the gold.

     Lily, from a lower branch of Felicity’s tree, gave a deeply heartfelt bay of agreement.    

     Will put the mystery aside for later pondering and walked over to the bucket. “Looks like Father Joe’s going to get his new bell after all. I don’t suppose you can mop those floors for me too, Felicity?”

     “Purr-row?” said Felicity, safe in Edwin’s arms. And then the cat who knew her place winked at him.

Entryway

(A NAPPER’S HOLLER Tale)

A.M. Stickel

     At the crossroads stands a stooped, hooded figure, barely visible in the twilight gloom. Whip cracks urge restless horses on, whereupon the misshapen passenger’s head turns first to watch the creaky wagon depart, and then toward the deeper gloom of a forest known to lonely trappers as Piney Woods.

      As the clatter dies away, the traveler shoulders a lumpy sack, leans on a crooked walking stick held in gloved fingers, and sighing, shuffles up the smaller trail, a passage so narrow that overhead interlacing boughs cut off most of the dim light. Underfoot, pungent leaves and needles rustle, fallen branches crackle, and bramble-studded vines threaten each halting step. Owls hoot from the thicket and crickets chirp. With each step the cloaked traveler takes, silence settles and cool mist rises ever higher, until even the twinkling starlight is dulled.

     After about an hour, the burbles of a stream interrupt the quiet, and the figure cocks an ear to listen, then turns from the path to slake a growing thirst. The traveler brushes back the cloak’s hood and kneels to drink. Reflected in the water, and cruelly exposed by the waxing moon, a glimpse of a distorted face elicits a howl of despair. From the sack, shaking hands draw forth a rendering lovingly executed in a former existence lived a world away—a miniature self portrait.

     Sent to the New World for a cure, hah! Master Marcus Keri, age fifteen, tossed and turned, abed in the Seaside Inn’s best room, his first night ever beyond the confines of his ancestral estate. In the next room his loyal servant, Albert, snored away, oblivious to the youngster’s disquiet.

     Supple artist’s hands, like his mother’s, explored the changes distorting his body. I’d have been tall, my hair the same auburn as mother’s twin, Edward . . . and similarly irresistible to women. Marcus grinned at the thought of Uncle Edward’s infamous exploits. At thirty, he’s more like an older brother . . . a really wicked one, though.

     During Marcus’s thirteenth birthday gala, his uncle had taken him aside and gifted him a vial of the elixir he swore was the secret of his own success. The youth kept the vial near. As instructed, he drank a drop of the potion mixed with a dram of water every full moon, after which he felt safe to polish his masculine prowess by charming pretty servant girls.   

     Father hopes for the best, yet . . . I know I’ll never see home again, whether I survive or perish from these deformities. Almighty God, why have you cursed me?

     All at once, the youth sat up in bed. What if Edward’s formula is, instead, a slow-acting poison? As father’s only cousin and with his sister—my mother—dead at fifteen birthing me, he’d inherit everything!   

     Marcus arose and wrote to his father by candlelight, rolled and sealed the note with wax, then rapped on Albert’s door, whereupon Albert, wiping the sleep from his eyes, emerged to his charge’s summons.

     “Old friend, you’re the only man I’d trust to take this to my father. If you hurry, you can be back before the ship departs. I’m bound by the obedience a son owes his father to seek a cure in the New World. I should take him these words—and this vial—myself, but I’d only slow you down. Once he reads my note, he must send you back with a reply . . . or even accompany you here. Make haste!”

     Albert bowed, grabbed his cloak and satchel, placing therein both items from his young master, and sped off on horseback to complete his errand.

     Pulled from his bed by his cousin’s angry retainers, a disheveled Edward faced Marcus’s father, Lord Keri, who stood before him waving a note, Albert at his side.

     “In my sister’s name, Cousin, I demand to know why you’ve thus ill-used me . . .” whined Edward.

     Marcus’ father, his face livid with rage, responded, “For your dead sister Edwina’s sake I’ve borne your profligacy, you wanton wastrel! You repay me by poisoning the nephew who worshipped you in order to gain his inheritance.”

     Edward’s face fell, and he sank into a nearby chair, head in hands, begging in a choked voice, “Kindly send your retainer from the room, Cousin. Your ears alone will hear my defense.”

     “The whole truth? None of your obfuscations?” When Edward nodded, Lord Keri’s bluster abated; he motioned Albert toward the hallway with a look that said: Remain just outside, ready to use force if necessary.

     “I promise on my dear sister’s memory,” Edward continued, his voice low, “had it not been for my selfishness, she and I would not have been parted.”

     “You were never parted. She insisted you come live with us as part of our marriage contract . . ” objected Lord Keri. “What has this to do with Marcus?”

     “I was too fond of my twin, Edwina, and she of me,” confessed Edward, “and the result was our son, Marcus. Your own desire for her worked to spare her from shame when my parents quickly consented to your union. You provided our son a fine inheritance and name. . . .We had not counted on her death in childbirth. This loss turned me to more vile pursuits, which have not given me the expected solace.”

     Lord Keri turned with a groan and strode to the fireplace, drawing the ornamental family sword from its scabbard displayed on the mantle. “I’ll have my solace—your head, incestuous fool!”

     “I deserve to die, Cousin, but . . . doesn’t Marcus deserve the truth?” Shaking, Edward pointed to the portraits of his sister and her son which overhung the mantle and scabbard on either side of the Keri ancestral coat of arms.

     “What is your version of the truth, then?” cried the offended lord, lowering the sword, while waving the vial Marcus had sent with Albert. “The circumstances of Marcus’s begetting are hardly his fault. He has proved to be the most devoted and gifted son a man could want, despite his infirmity. As your father’s sole survivor, your inheritance was always assured, so why would you have poisoned your own flesh and blood? If you truly loved Edwina, do you think she would have approved of you killing her child and yours?”

     “You do not understand the nature of Marcus’ heritage, Cousin. The vial is not poison, but an antidote. Should he fail to take it, his physical changes will progress to the point where he is no longer human during the full moon. His unfortunate deterioration is the result of sibling union in which some of the worst characteristics of our forefathers bred true. At fifteen, I discovered one in my desire for Edwina and hers for me, though innocent of their full extent. I’ve since had access to their more terrible aspects in records passed to me upon Father’s death, which both you and Marcus should read.” Edward drew forth an ornate chest from under a brick at the edge of the massive fireplace. It held a book.

     After reading, the facts began to sink in, leaving Marcus’s foster father little choice. “You, Edward, must accompany Marcus to the New World. I cannot put faithful Albert in harm’s way. I will write orders for you to deliver to Marcus. Waste no time. Pack what you need, and the vial and book as well . . . and . . . take him my undying love. Follow my instructions, or else! Captain Swift is my man and the Aviva my ship. I’m advising him to watch your every move.”

     The dawn of departure brought Edward to the Seaside Inn. Marcus, handed the proof of his heritage—cautioning note, damning book, and precious vial—offered Edward a bestial glare and snarling growl, his incisors displayed.

     Edward recalled an illegal dog fight he’d once attended, where he’d wagered and lost a sizable sum. Losing this wager meant instant death. His instinct was to put up his guard and back away slowly, yet he stood stock still, touched Edwina’s silver cross on its chain around his neck, and said, “Our dear cousin sends you his undying love.”

     Marcus, his human side victorious, said in a tight voice, “Here’s your chance, not so much to find me a cure as to save your own soul, by proving yourself the father you ought to have been. From now on, let us address each other, man to man—‘Edward’ and ‘Marcus’—out of respect for the nobleman who affords us both mercy: Lord Keri.”

     “Agreed, Marcus.” Edward extended his hand, and, after a moment of hesitation, Marcus took it.

     Fascinated by the hubbub of departure, Marcus permitted Edward and the other passengers to precede him up the Aviva’s gangplank. Unlike Edward, he did not bother to inspect the owner’s quarters adjoining Captain Swift’s, where they would be settled for the duration of the voyage, but stood at the rail. Trunks, bags, food, water and rum kegs, live animals, and gear were loaded by sweaty handlers. Tearful goodbyes followed. The sails were hoisted and tie-lines released. Aviva cleared the harbor’s calm waters, and began rising and falling with the ocean’s natural rhythm.

     Edward and Marcus were soon united in mutual misery, stomachs queasy and sea-legs wanting. Captain Swift’s cook and crew became their saviors—the former with broth and ginger tea, the latter with tall tales and stoic hard work.

     “Edward,” said Marcus on the fifth night, “Charlie One-Eye took me down into the hold today and I heard those creatures the crew talks about; the things were rubbing their bodies along the hull, seeking a weak spot in the wood.”

     “Aha! You must mean the fabled fish folk, with their ‘lantern eyes, green scales, and razor teeth,’” teased Edward. “Rum makes sailors prone to exaggeration and superstition. Surely you don’t believe in fish-folk?”

     “Y . . . yes, I think they exist and are even uglier than I am, although they’re not evil …merely trying to survive.”

     Edward, reaching for his son’s hand in the dark, addressed the problem. “Marcus, do you think you’re evil just because of the way you look? I’m the evil one here . . . and yet there’s hope for my salvation. You are that hope.”

     Marcus’ voice became a harsh whisper. “Hope? I’m an abomination. If I can’t be healed, when the time comes I want you to do the right thing, Father. Even with the antidote, during the full moon such a thirst comes over me. . . . I know I’d rend to satisfy my bloodlust, and rape to procreate more of my kind.”

     “You’ve already overcome your seasickness. You can resist your baser urges too. I’m learning to control mine, and, in the process, truly become your father. Take heart.”

     “I’ll try, Father, I promise.”

     So do I, thought Edward, but said only, “Good night and rest safe.”

     “Land Ho!” rang the cry on the grey evening of arrival in the New World. Too late! A storm had battered the Aviva in the night; limping along, sails torn, hull leaking, she listed and wobbled. Hands had been swept overboard, and the passengers were weak from hanging on and heaving up their insides. With a shudder, she breached . . . and ran aground.     

     Shipwrecked upon the shore of the New World under a full moon, antidote and most of their goods lost, Edward lay amidst the gnawed bodies of disemboweled men and bleeding women, their hips broken by violent rape. Yet, one of his dearest possessions remained. Facing a matured Marcus, who rose before him fearsomely fanged and furred, he pulled the pistol with one silver bullet from its hiding place in his shirt, and made his choice. Farewell, my son.

     The exquisite portrait before his golden gaze, the howler gripping it cannot quite remember whether this depicts Marcus or Edward. His instincts tell him to cross the stream toward the forbidden burial ground set aside by the local savages. Once there, he clambers up a tree to rest at last next to a naked corpse upon the highest platform, and to feast on the funeral food left at the tree’s foot. Other animals have had their share already. Above all, he craves rest.

     His wounded right hand throbs, a gleaming silver crucifix in its clawed grasp. One arm of this sacred object points to heaven, one to hell . . .  and the other two?—east to a home, forever gone, and west to the entryway he will open to a refuge destined to shelter the lost and outcast, someday to be marked by a sign reading simply: “Napper’s Holler.”