Page 40 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She pulls herself into the Ether and the cry is cut off. She opens her eyes to the darkness, pressing a hand to her forehead, swallowing against the hoarseness at the back of her throat.

Beside her, Hun sits, head cocked to the side as she looks curiously at a faint green light pulsing in the distance. Calliope buries her hand in the thick fur on top of Hun’s head. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Hun huffs and points her muzzle to the light. Calliope cocks her head to the side, squinting in the distance. “What are you?” Her voice echoes against the darkness. She takes a step forward—

And then she is blinking against a sudden burst of light as Rory’s hand on her shoulder brings her back to the present.

“Calliope?” he says, his voice startling loud in the quiet of the evening. She has the impression that he’s been saying her name repeatedly since she slipped into the Ether.

Rory’s grip around her arm is firm, and looking down, she sees why: she is one step away from the water.

“There’s something wrong in the lake, I’m sure of it,” she explains, blinking away the rapidly melting frost from her eyelashes. She looks out at the circling shadow, the steely blue water rippling as it twists and turns. “It’s so sad, I can feel it. Like droplets of rain or the sun shining down on me in the middle of the day.”

Kane flutters down and lands on her shoulder. “Did you see what it is?”

“No, but…” Her words trail off into the dusty dark. She shakes her head.

“I have to leave for work soon,” says Rory. “Sincewe don’t know what it is, you need…can you try to stay inside while I’m gone? Please?”

She nods distractedly, squinting again at the lake. She wonders if that faint green mist hovering above the surface is real, or if she’s beginning to see things.

* * *

The storm breaks that night, air heavy and sizzling. A boom of thunder shakes the walls, startling Calliope from her sleep. The wind picks up, bending the trees around the house, as if they are leaning in for an embrace. A tree branch scratches at the window, like a cat asking to be let in. She stands to look out the window, but thinks it feels more like the trees are trying to swallow up the house and everything and everyone inside.

She tries to busy herself with a sketch of the interior of the living room, with its piano in the corner and landscape painting in a gilded frame on the wall above the worn brown couch that dips a bit in the middle. The pencil refuses to cooperate with her hand and she tosses it aside, frustrated.

She presses a key on the piano. She presses another one. Then closes the lid with a snap.

She makes her way to the kitchen, which is dark and forbidding, but soon warms up after she switches on the small lamp on the counter. It provides just enough light if she wants to continue hersketching. She doesn’t reach for her notebook and pencil though. She stares out at the darkness beyond the house, as the rain lashes against the window, and she squints to see the lake.

Yes, it’s still there—the faraway cry. She knows it’s a call for something or someone but isn’t sure she’s the right person to answer. It’s enticing though—the mystery and the sadness. As the rain gets louder, the cry follows suit, straining to be heard over the crack of lightning and the heavy rolling thunder.

Perhaps, if she just got a little closer—maybe just stood on the back porch—perhaps then she could hear it better. She could discern the meaning and help the poor thing. She reaches for the door, but there is a flutter of wings and Kane is on her shoulder, talons piercing her skin.

“I don’t think you should do that,” he says.

She shoos him away. “I’m just going to the porch. It’ll be fine.” She opens the door, pushing against the surprising force of the wind. Leaves and twigs are bandied about and scratch against her legs as she takes a step outside. Even with the overhanging of the porch, her skin is quickly coated in a fine mist of rain, like tiny needles against her shins.

The cry is indeed louder tonight and as she blinks against the rain, brushing her hair away from her face, she can see that glow in the center of the lake. It is soft against the harsh rain, yielding compared to the sharp bend of the trees and the pebbled surface of the lake.

She takes another step forward, trying to get a better view, trying to get closer to the sound. But she is too close to the stairs and her foot finds no resistance, the surprise of which sends her toppling forward.

She lands halfway down the stone steps. If she still had breath in her lungs, she’s sure it would have been knocked out with the impact. The rain is pelting against her face, clouding her vision. She lies still, letting the cool water soak through her dress and her hair. The wind is louder down here. She wipes at her face and blinks up at the house, the orange kitchen light like a beacon in the dark. She thinks she sees the shadow of Kane in the open doorway, but her attention is once again drawn to the lake, where a loud cry pierces through the sound of the storm.So close. She picks herself up and kneels, squinting against the rain and the dark.

Is that the creature in the lake? That small dark shape cresting slightly above the wave? She leans forward, hands gripping the slick stone. The creature is so close—the answers to what has been haunting their lake so very near. If only she could just get a little closer. Her hand slips from the step, and she finds herself plunging into the inky depths of Graeme Lake. The water is cold, almost as cold as Rory’s touch. Her body takes over and before she really comes to terms with the fact that she’s in the water, her arms and legs are working to keep her afloat.

Something brushes against her leg, and she kicks,instinct once again pushing her to move. But the manacles weigh her down, making it hard to swim, to keep her head above the water. She curses herself for not listening to Kane. For not listening to Rory. What will he do when he comes home and she’s not there? She suddenly feels an urgent need to get back to the house. The moonflower vine grows stronger. Hun growls. The creature skims along her bare feet, and she kicks her legs, arms flailing, scrabbling to get her back to the steps. The wind is strong, the current carrying her farther away from safety. The green light is brighter now, and she closes her eyes as she feels the warmth of the creature’s breath on the back of her neck.

21

A Rare Beast

Rory

Rory hunches over the sales counter at the Go-Go, squinting at the tiny television set, as he flips through the channels. He lands on the local news and turns up the volume a few clicks.

The image on the television set is framed in static and slides to the left every few minutes or so. The news anchor’s face is temporarily dismantled and put back together again as he talks solemnly about a recent plane crash that took the lives of over sixty passengers.

---