The Deep

by Nick Cutter

THE HESPERUS HOVERED against the horizon, holding its position against the rising sun. God of the Evening Star—Venus. That’s what Hesperus meant in Greek, Luke had been told. But it was frequently mistranslated in Latin as Phosphorus. Namely, Lucifer. Of all the names in creation, why risk that invocation?

Your child doesn’t owe you loyalty or obedience. You owe your child love and understanding, owe it unconditionally, and if you love them strongly enough, eventually that love may be returned. Luke’s own mother had never seen it that way. She thought Luke and Clay owed her love regardless of how she treated them.

Water is what runs out of our kitchen taps or a playground drinking fountain. It fills bathtubs and pools and yes, of course, the ocean—but at a certain depth, water becomes a barrier from all you remember, all you think you know. You’re trapped within it, a plaything of it. Focus erodes. Your thoughts mutate. The pressure. The pressure. The soul can’t cope with that. It shouldn’t be expected to. Humans weren’t built for this. There’s a reason nothing lives down here. Or nothing should.