IGMS Issue 36 Page 4

  And then I was the Grouper, plectropomus pessuliferus, and I dove.

  At the Old Folks' Home at the End of the World

  by John P. Murphy

  Artwork by M. Wayne Miller

  * * *

  There is an old folks' home at the end of the world, a modest-sized white clapboard building perched at the top of a hill overlooking the sea. A single scraggly rose bush still grows by the front porch. The rose bush is an item of discord: every month or so, Percimandias the Timeless and Enyo the Undying get to arguing over whether the bush ought to be fed with aspirin water or the blood of unicorns.

  It's a moot point, of course: they have no aspirin, and the last unicorn -- along with the last maiden who could lure it -- died centuries ago. But they enjoy the argument, and each secretly suspects that the other is right. All they know for sure is that the flowers were more vibrant yesterday, smelled more lovely. They could be right; there are a lot of yesterdays in an old folks' home.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, Rama the Terrible takes a walk every morning along the seawall. He rolls up the bottoms of his trousers, wades into the water, and uses his foul magic to patch up spots that look iffy. It's the same spell he used to use to maintain his impregnable Skull Fortress. He hadn't really ever intended to leave his fortress, only to visit the codgers for a couple days.

  Days became weeks, months, and years. Decades. He went back one day and found his Fortress growing ivy out of its giant marble nostrils and covered in bird shit. He told everyone that a hero blew it up, and they were very sympathetic about the nuisance.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, anyone who starts a sentence, "Back when I still had minions . . ." has to put a quarter in the jar.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, Amarahotep the Terrible (who was Terrible long before Rama was Terrible) keeps a secret stash of chocolate under the floorboards. By shaving it once a week with a diamond-encrusted starsteel dagger (scrupulously cleaned of the blood and ichor from its previous use, which earned her the title "Terrible"), this stash has been made to last over two hundred years, and may last another hundred. Amarahotep the Terrible (etc.) has been considering for some time a moonlit sharpening ritual to see about stretching the stash another century still, but is a little uncomfortable with the nudity, and unsure where to find cockatrice feathers anymore.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, Rama the Terrible has breakfast every day in the cove with the shingle beach, in view of the seawall. Sometimes Enyo the Undying sits on a threadbare blue towel on the pebbles, looking out at the tide and cradling a skull: the last of her serious enemies, whose last-ditch effort to put a halt to her diabolical schemes proved not entirely sufficient. It is still wine-stained inside. Now she mostly just talks to it. Apologizes. The other residents speculate quietly and seriously about whether it ever responds, or forgave.

  She's not at the cove this morning. Rama the Terrible peels two hard-boiled eggs and dips them into the water to salt them. As he eats he looks out on the thousands of thousands of black and gray pebbles on the beach, now half-buried in a fine calcium sand, and he thinks about large numbers. "Million" is not a friendly word in the old folks' home.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, the staff have long since grown old and expired, leaving the residents to divvy up chores like cleaning and cooking. The residents tend to think of themselves as management, not labor. Over the years they have formed Committees, Commissions, and Boards to address issues as they arise, such as mold, demonic incursions, chicken coop repairs, leaking pipes, demonic incursions that turned out to be leaking pipes, and dry rot. Were it not for sorcerous runes inside the walls and other nefarious protections, these meetings would have resulted in the fiery destruction of the home many times over. Were it not for Amarahotep the Terrible (etc.) being inexplicably keen on keeping the basement dry, the pipes would still leak.

  The residents are even less adept at coming to a consensus about chores and cleaning, but after much wailing and gnashing of teeth there is The Schedule: the longest-lasting constitutional document of its type in history. The Schedule may not be fair, but damn it, it works.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, everyone feels a little bad about the way they treated Krom the Only-Nigh-Invulnerable. It's too late now, of course.

  At the old folks' home at the end of the world, Rama the Terrible finishes his inspection of the seawall and casually pokes his stick into the rabbit hole by the path. The King of Rabbits once surrendered to him the secret of undoing dark rituals and revoking immortality, but the King of Rabbits is long since gone. It's a small thing, really -- a wonder the others haven't discovered it for themselves. Rama thinks about maybe telling them all today. But things aren't so bad at the old folks' home, not really, even with bickering and boredom and running out of chocolate. He looks out at the sea and watches the wind blow the water white and black, and thinks about being alone.

  It can wait until tomorrow. There are a lot of tomorrows at the end of the world.

  Once More to Kitty Hawk

  by Greg Kurzawa

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  "The first symptoms most often appear in the hands," the doctor explained to the young couple and their aged father. The grip weakens; manipulation of even the most basic instruments becomes increasingly challenging. Within a very short time, you will feel that you've grown feeble and uncoordinated. None of these symptoms represent an actual loss of strength, you understand, but rather a declining capacity to interact with the physical world."

  David woke at 3:07 a.m. to the sound of breaking glass. He found his father in the kitchen, staring out the dark window over the sink.

  "Dad?"

  His father was startled. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just thought I saw . . ." he gestured toward the window, either a dismissal or an effort to explain something outside, David couldn't tell. He went to his father's side and looked out, saw only moonlit yard, then a broken drinking glass in the sink.

  "I'm sorry," his father said again.

  "It doesn't matter, Dad. I'll get it in the morning." David took down another glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap. He offered it to his father, but the older man's eyes had gone back to the window.

  "Dad."

  David's father absently reached for the glass, and that was when David noticed that the outline of his father's hand had become indistinct. When David didn't surrender the glass, his father looked at his own hand. "Oh," he said.

  "Okay," David said. "It's okay." Retracting the glass, he transferred the water to a plastic cup.

  David's father accepted the offering and drank.

  "We knew this would come," David said.

  They nodded together.

  David's father returned the empty plastic cup to the counter, then went to their small table, pulled a chair and sat. He joined his hands on the table in front of him and stared.

  David sat across from him.

  "I want to go somewhere," his father said.

  "We have time," David assured him.

  "I'd like to see Kitty Hawk again."

  David nodded.

  "I'll put my things in boxes," his father said. "So you won't have to when you get back."

  "Stop it, Dad."

  "I have a lot of things."

  "He wants to go to North Carolina," David told Laura in bed. "Kitty Hawk."

  Beside him, Laura lay with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. "Isn't that --"

  "Where Matthew drowned. Yeah."

  "And he wants you with him."

  David thought of long hours on the road, hotels, fast food and an endless parade of mile markers. "I've always wanted to see the east coast," he admitted. "Lighthouses. Seagulls. What else?"

  Laura moved her hand to the cleft in his chin, a gesture he'd always misunderstood to mean she wanted him to stop talking. But he didn't think so now. Answering h
is own question, David said, "The Outer Banks." Then, "The Emerald Coast."

  Laura tapped his chin. "That's Florida."

  David made a small noise of assent. His eyes moved across the ceiling, creating images of white beaches and green waves; piers made hazy by thick air and distance. Kites and seafood. "He wants to go and not come back."

  "You'll go with him, then?"

  When David didn't answer right away, Laura propped herself up on an elbow to search his face. "He can't go alone."

  "So I should?"

  "You must."

  David heard the cry of gulls. "Shipwrecks," he mused.

  Laura smiled. "Thunderstorms."

  "The onset of translucency is accompanied by periods of profound disorientation," the doctor continued. He pressed his palms together for emphasis. "This kind of deterioration can be unsettling. I cannot stress enough the importance of readiness. This is often the most taxing stage for those attending the patient, and the cause of countless troubling episodes. As the translucency encroaches inward from the extremities it becomes easier for patients to disconnect from their surroundings. If allowed to wander they will undoubtedly find themselves in unfamiliar territory, endangering themselves and others."

  Laura packed for David and set his duffel by the front door. But they did not leave that morning, or even the morning after that. David's father reclined in his room and plowed through a stack of mystery novels. Rarely did he read more than fifty pages of any one before discarding it for the next. David looked in on him from time to time. When not reading, he wore his massive headphones and listened to Handel and Wagner. David's bag waited alone in the tiled foyer.

  For two days David waited on the couch with his shoes on. He drank coffee and flipped through Laura's magazines. He tried to watch television, but forgot everything during commercials. "He's wasting time," he complained to Laura.

  "It's his time."

  "He's just reading."

  "What do you want him to do?"

  "I want him," David said, "to do what he wants to do." He caught Laura smirking, so he tossed Living aside and turned on the television. "What he really wants to do."

  "Why don't you take him for a walk?"

  "No one wants to walk, Laura."

  Late that evening David's father surprised them in the living room. They didn't notice him until he flipped the light in the hall to capture their attention.

  "I'm thinking we can leave tomorrow," he said. "Early."

  When David shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee he found that his father had already managed to do so. Using both hands, his father was drinking his third cup.

  "Getting late," he said to David.

  "It's 5:15, Dad. Can I have this?" He poured himself the dregs of the pot without waiting for the answer. "Laura wants to make us breakfast."

  "That'd be fine."

  David noticed the open bottle of Glenlivet on the counter next to him. He picked it up and smiled. "I'd join you, but I'm driving. We'll take it with us though."

  They both raised their mugs to that.

  "I plotted our course last night," David said. He'd left the printout on the counter, and he lifted it for his father to see. "About fifteen hours. We can do it in two days if we push it. Three if we relax."

  "No need to rush," his father said. "We'll play chess."

  When Laura's breakfast had been eaten and the dishes cleared, David retreated to the shower. He returned dressed and ready, and found the front door open to a view of his father dragging both his own suitcase and David's light duffel down the walk to the driveway. He could lift neither of them.

  "I got it, Dad!" David called. He rescued both bags from his father and tossed them into the back seat. Laura met him coming back up the walk with a thermos of coffee and a paper bag of sandwiches, cookies, and string cheese. She held David's father for a long time. When at last they parted, he kissed her forehead and smiled for her. He said that she was lovely, and that it had been a blessing to know her. Then he gave her to David and put himself in the car.

  "I'll call when we stop," David told her.

  "Did you check the oil?" his father asked out the window.

  "We'll get there, Dad," David said. "I promise."

  They drove over four-hundred miles that first day, passing through Birmingham and Atlanta, and coming to rest in Augusta. Their hotel boasted a dirt lot and a pool that probably hadn't held water for years. Neither of them felt like eating out, so David ducked out to collect bags of food from the nameless diner across the road. When he came back his father had set the chess board and was pouring Glenlivet for both of them. "Time for the thrashing," his father announced, dropping ice into their cups. "Wisdom conquers youth."

  "Can we start eating before you win, Dad?"

  David distributed sandwiches before settling into his chair and pushing out the king's pawn.

  "Ah!" his father said, immensely pleased with his son's foolishness. "We'll be done by --" He checked his watch. "Seven."

  He checkmated David at 6:55. But ten minutes into their second game he began fumbling pieces. Two moves later he slid a rook like a bishop and couldn't seem to remember it wasn't his turn. David looked up from his final move and saw that the substance of his father had begun to fade.

  "Let's finish later, Dad."

  His father shifted in his chair to look around him. "Where's Laura?"

  David drew him out of his chair. "She's at home, Dad."

  His father couldn't work the buttons of his shirt, so David helped him out if it, then into a pair of pajamas. With his father in bed, David poured himself a third drink. He piled pillows against his headboard and turned the television on.

  "Will this bother you?" he asked.

  "Tell your mother to get David out of the tub," his father mumbled. "He's not a fish."

  David looked towards the dark bathroom. "I will, Dad."

  With the sound so low he could barely hear, David watched a series of late-night talk show hosts and their parade of guests. At some point he realized the voice from the television didn't match what was happening onscreen. He turned the volume up just enough to hear an unclear voice say, ". . . wouldn't do it. I wouldn't go in."

  David looked at the other bed, where his father seemed nothing more than a mound of blankets. The voice from the television crackled, and David leaned forward to better hear.

  "No one could get it open," his father's voice said.

  "Couldn't get what open, Dad?"

  The host and his guest leaned toward one another, laughing silently. The image clipped and rolled. "David? Where do you think they learn that?" The screen first dimmed, then brightened. "Business school," said his father's voice. "Harvard!"

  David tried to turn the television off, but it shivered and persisted. Giving up, he checked the time and called Laura, trying twice before she answered.

  "We're in Augusta," David told her.

  "You could have called sooner."

  From the television his father said, ". . . doesn't burn hot enough to melt steel. Do you know what it takes to do that?"

  "It was a long day," David said. "I'm sorry. I just forgot." The channel rolled to another station, where in soft black and whites the Lone Ranger crouched behind a boulder, sidearm lifted.

  "It had something to do with their shoes," his father said over the faint sound of gunshots.

  Laura asked, "Everything's okay?"

  "This might have been a mistake," David said.

  The doctor rose, his three guests following his lead. "Best not to travel," he said as he stepped around his desk and guided them toward the door. "Even minor changes in surroundings can cause distress, which, in turn, loosens the patent's moorings to a specific locale. Set adrift, it can be exceedingly difficult to find their way back again. This leads to upsetting circumstances -- for the patient, as well as those attending him. Always remember, familiarity is a powerful anchor." He opened the door for them, but did not step aside. "That is but one reason we reco
mmend staying with us here at the clinic once transition begins. We have private rooms, and specialists on staff. We have the means to keep them grounded. In the best of cases, we can make the entire process no more troubling than a series of dreams." He looked specifically at the young man's father. "We can make you very comfortable."

  David's father was fully present the next morning, and proved it by drinking half a pot of coffee and eating the rest of the sandwiches, as well as the one David hadn't finished. He carried the luggage to the car, and flirted with the sixty-something attendant at the front desk.

  "Hold my February reservation," he warned her.

  "Oh go on," the attendant laughed, waving him off.

  Forty miles later the color in him had bled away. When he spoke -- and could be heard -- it was broken conversations with people only he saw. He laughed at jokes his mother had told twenty years past.

  At a rest area twenty miles east of Columbia, David stopped to use the bathroom. When he returned, his father was missing. David searched the bathrooms, then the wooded picnic area. He described his father to a dozen strangers. Then the bathrooms again, this time banging open every stall. He stooped to look in cars that weren't his. An hour later Laura called.

  "He's with you?" David asked.

  "He was in the kitchen when I got home. What happened? Where are you?"

  "What's he doing?"

  "He was trying to open the drawers."

  "I mean now."

  "He's in his room."

  "Doing what?" David said as he opened his door and fell in behind the wheel. He closed it behind him to block the roar of the interstate.