Page 2 of Entranced By the Nakken
“I know. Love you too.”
Casey strolled out the door, between the house and his beat-up sedan, through the backyard, and past the tree line.
Lost in thought, it didn’t take long to reach his secret haven. His feet inherently knew the path, carrying him through the thick woods to the babbling brook, which he followed for a time until the stream was joined by another, and cascaded down a low-stepped incline of stones.
It was pretty, like a photo straight from a calendar of Florida’s infamously weird St. John’s River, and somehow, it was all his. The only time Casey ran into another kid here, they weren’t human. Covered in sparkling blue scales with a voice like heaven’s fucking harp, the creature was ethereal. Casey could still hear their song like it was yesterday.
After testing the dryness of a rock a few feet from the edge, he set down his notebook. Being back here was surreal, and a wave of heartburn or some shit fluttered through his chest as he stared into the shallow stream. Lindahl boasted legends of an evil entity living in the water. Being an old Scandinavian town that kept many traditions and folklore alive, the resident of the lake’s existence was woven into the town’s very fabric. His senior year of high school, spirit week had an UnderwaterDay theme, and many variations of the malevolent water spirit showed up.
Others thought the silly story was a tall tale used to force caution in adventurous kids. Casey knew otherwise. Something lived in these waters, but it wouldn’t harm him. An evil spirit wouldn’t have saved his life.
Casey’s love for music dated back to the womb. Probably. At six years old, Casey was obsessed with music. That day, he was exploring the brook, taking unsteady steps on slippery rocks, using his young imagination to the fullest, when an enchanting sound distracted him. The song captivated him so thoroughly that he didn’t notice the hungry bear fishing for dinner a few yards downstream. The mysterious singer let out an ear-piercing wail.
Clasping his hands over his ears, young Casey’s attention had jerked up, catching sight of the charging bear at last. In the next unexplainable moment, the bear was drowning.
Young Casey looked everywhere for his songbird savior. He found them peering around a boulder but didn’t get the chance to shout his thanks before they took to the water, their scales glinting like crystals as two fins instead of feet propelled them deeper and deeper.
Nobody believed him. A helpful mer-person? A drowning bear? Clearly it was the overactive imagination of a child. Only his sweet mother believed him, always encouraging his fantasies. Being Polish as opposed to Swedish like her husband, Mom claimed it was a drowner or a wodnik. Best to leave it be.
That wasn’t what bothered Casey. That day, a hole burrowed deep into Casey’s soul. Maybe he craved closure. If he could say one thing to them, he would tell them how inspiring they were. Whatever tragedy gave birth to such a lament, Casey admired how they’d rendered it into something so divine.
Presently, Casey rolled up his jean cuffs and kicked off his tennis shoes, wading into the water. He was under no delusion that the creature would show up today, after all these years, but his inner child couldn’t resist an adventure.
The rocks were slick and covered in moss. Using low-hanging branches, he carefully ventured to the middle of the cascade and relished the way his presence disturbed the continuous tumbling of water over rocks, altering the course of nature.
The woods teemed with music. Nature’s song lodged in his chest, a spark of inspiration that had him humming along. He mumbled a few words, which progressed into lyrics, until he grinned at his genius and hurried back toward dry land to write it down before he forgot.
Almost to safety, Casey slipped. He grasped for a branch and felt a sharp sting as something sliced his finger.
“Fuck!” Steadying himself, a few drops of blood ran along his palm to paint the river. He took the last leap more carefully, then dusted his hands on his jeans.
He jotted down the words, not disheartened when they weren’t quite right. At least the idea was down, and he could build on it, which he did. For hours. He hummed, sang, wrote, and scratched through words in his notebook until he realized he was squinting in twilight’s waning light.
A hauntingly beautiful sound teased at his awareness, just out of reach. Soulful. Seductive. Evocative. Fuck, it was everything, and everything he would never capture in his own music, but where was it coming from? Every time he tried to latch onto it, the melody eluded him, like the water caressing his ankles…
Casey blinked, then blinked again. Oh, mother fuck. He’d fallen asleep! “Fucking fuck.”
For a moment, he felt the blinding fear that his parents would be angry with him for staying out too late. Then he remembered he was a grown-ass adult and sighed.
He gathered his things but couldn’t resist casting another wistful glance at the burbling stream, as though the frothy water held the key to whatever was missing inside him.
Chapter Two
A Clump of Sea Rubbish
Nothingness.
Agony.
Boredom.
More ever-present nothingness.
In a patch of freshwater, a clump of algae and sticks stirred with the barest hint of consciousness. Existence was a constant longing. Hunger for a feeling the clump could not recall.
Drip.
Drip.
