A Devil's Dictionary

1980-3

WE’D BEEN STARING AT it for maybe five minutes when Kevin wandered away from us and paused at the water, where he shielded his eyes from the sunset and mumbled, “They’re back. The hands, the twelve-string guitar ...”

I followed his gaze, shielding my eyes also, to where the black sword could again be seen in the middle of the lake. As before, it was held aloft by a pair of slim, beautiful hands. “Wrong again—kid. I told you: It’s Stormbringer, sister to Mournblade, runesword of Elric, the last emperor of Melniboné.”

“No,” said Orley, approaching us, “It’s neither of those.” He shouldered between us and stood with his hands on his hips, like a superhero. “It’s Excalibur, obviously. Held aloft by the Lady of the Lake, waiting to be claimed.”

The truth of it was, it was all those things and none of those things, but we didn’t know that yet, didn’t know much of anything—we were only 15. But we knew it was real, whatever it was, and that something associated with it had been visiting us in our dreams. We also knew each other, and so understood that each of us was seeing something totally unique to ourselves: Kevin was learning guitar, his AWOL father’s twelve-string, and thus naturally saw an instrument. I was obsessed with the works of Michael Moorcock—Elric, in particular—and had been trying to write something similar. And Orley had been reading about Camelot (and struggling with Middle English) ever since his mother had brought home a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur from the Salvation Army. More than any of that, though, we knew what we had to do—although we still didn’t know why or how—and it was to that end that we set about our work, breaking off spear-length branches from the nearby trees and whittling them as sharp as we could, fashioning still others into makeshift rowing paddles, and each taking turns blowing up the raft by working the little handpump we’d stolen from White Elephant.

By the time we were ready, the sky was completely red, like Mars, or Vulcan, and we were beginning to feel the press of time—perhaps the surest indication that one has moved closer to adulthood than childhood. But then we were adrift, and all such concerns were forgotten, and though we struggled at first to coordinate our paddles, it became evident soon enough that we would reach the swords, the guitar, the anomaly, well before dark—and so steeled ourselves as best we could; mostly by talking about our dreams, both those experienced by night and those conceived of by day—for they were pertinent, all of them, to what lie ahead.

“She showed me a vision in which I was being awarded the Medal of Honor,” said Orley at last, working his paddle, staring straight ahead. “Carter himself was the one who affixed it around my neck.”

The little raft rocked, dark water slapping, but nobody expressed doubt.

“I was a best-selling author,” I said, quietly, solemnly. “Like Stephen King. But really, really good-looking.”

“I was a rock star,” said Kevin. “Bigger even than Elvis.”

We rowed, drawing closer to the thing.

“It is the future you see,” said Kevin in his best Yoda voice.

Nobody laughed.

“Maybe,” said Orley. “That is, if we free her from the lake. If we—I don’t know—return her to her ship or something. Leastwise that’s how I interpreted it.”

“Me too,” I said.

Kevin leaned forward, rocking the boat. “But why the swords and the guitar? And why can’t she leave the lake? What the hell is she, even?”

We all thought about that as a loon cried somewhere across the water.

“Maybe she’s too weak,” I said. “Maybe her body is ... mutilated or something—from the crash.” I looked to where the black sword seemed to hover just above the surface of the water—as sinister as it was eldritch, precisely as I’d always imagined it. And below that, her—the woman in the water’s—hand; her thin, beautiful hand, deaden-blue from the depths.

“Maybe that’s just how she establishes contact,” I said. “How she gets your attention, and holds it. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if all that just goes away—like a mirage—when we get there.”

“Nah. Then why—”

But then, as if to confirm, the hand did begin to go away, to lower, taking the sword with it—as if, indeed, it had been just a prop, just bait to get us closer.

“f**k!” shouted Orley. He jerked his paddle, doubling his efforts. “Hurry up! Row!”

But it was too late; it was gone. The sword, the deaden-blue hand, all of it.

––––––––

* * * *

I’M NOT SURE HOW LONG we floated there, just looking at each other. All I know is that by the time we busted out the flashlights the color had bled from the hills and the temperature had dropped significantly; enough so that our decision not to bring coats (there was only so much room in our backpacks, after all) seemed foolhardy and brash.

Regardless, it was Kevin who first saw something, jolting as we trained our lights into the murky water and blurting, in a voice that was one part excitement and at least two parts terror, “Holy s**t! I saw her! I saw her! She swam right beneath the raft!”

I remember Orley just freezing and staring at me—earnestly, intensely—before we both dropped to our bellies and shoved our flashlights against the water, angling the beams as far beneath the raft as we could while each taking a side—the hope being that we wouldn’t upend the entire boat. Kevin meanwhile actually reached into the drink and felt around, which seemed unwise to me at the time and more than a little out of character, reckless, even. Crazy-brave.

That’s when it happened. That’s when the girl, but really the xenoform, the multi-dimensional being, the thing, just floated up: her face emerging like some porcelain doll and her blue-black hair swirling (like tentacles, I thought, or the snakes in Medusa’s hair), her drowned, all-white eyes staring. That’s also when she reached up with arms as thin as paper dowels—famine arms, Buchenwald arms—and pulled me into the lake.

––––––––