Where They Wait

by Scott Carson

Pat Ryan and I bonded the fall of our freshman year over two things: beer and bullshit.

“Terrific.” I opened a bottle of Blanton’s bourbon. “What did the precocious young lad do, pray tell? Invent a blender that sources private consumer data to retailers in real time?”

“It’s a no-brainer,” Pat said, and I had to laugh. “What?” he protested. “I’m thinking of how many times you said that about something that nearly left me dead or in jail.” “And you regret none of those adventures.”

the loons were loud. Two of them, maybe three, all engaged in busy squawking chatter that didn’t resemble their standard mournful cry. The rapid-fire exchange suggested that they were reacting to a disturbance or a threat, most likely some unwelcome creature near the nest. The signature sound of the loon is a solitary sound. It’s a haunting cry of undeniable beauty with an undercurrent of sorrow. An announcement of peaceful northern isolation, the Thoreau of birds. The sound is a lie, though. Loons are not solitary, nor are they peaceful. The loon’s life is a violent one. The birds will stab each other with their beaks, beat each other with their wings, and pull each other under the water. The midnight cry that makes people think of Thoreau at Walden Pond is anything but serene.

He winked. “Told you from the beginning—today’s news is forgotten tomorrow, but folklore is forever. This is why you need to join me on the book, brother. We’ll find the future by looking in the past.”

“Yeah,” I said. “What does she do?” “What does she do.” She echoed me again, this time without the questioning tone. “She fills an urn. That’s her role, Nick. She fills an urn.

“He’s just curious to see what happens when he pokes at my brain? A regular Dr. Mengele. He must have been delighted when I walked in that door.”

“Maybe it’s not the app,” I said. “Maybe it’s the song.” He sipped the bourbon. “A song that guides people to their deaths? Feels a little Satanic Panic, doesn’t it? Interview Ozzy Osbourne about the old days. More people will read it then.” “It may take some time,” I said, “but the story will be there. Trust me. And when it appears, you won’t be happy.”

The point is the story lingered—because of the horror.” “That’s usually the way. Horror stories outlast hero stories, I think. Unless they’re paired together, of course.”

When power is wielded without grace and compassion, we behold a dark world, indeed.

“They get stronger,” he told me. “You can feel it in the fog. Thicker it gets, stronger they are. Sundown is the worst of times. They’re terribly strong at sundown, and I’m getting weaker. There’s a price to be paid for listening to the death song, and a greater one is due for any man who shares it. It was a solemn thing, any fool could see that, and yet we tampered with it.”

Captain Knowlton had been sleeping and Lermond had the watch. By the time I roused the Captain and we returned together, the destruction done to the body of the singer was such as I had never seen before or since. He had been lashed almost to pieces, bones laid bare, flesh flayed in a red mist over the deck.

He knew exactly what his ancestor had sought from the song: defiance of death. No, triumph over it.