Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
IT LANDS WITH a thunk, from nowhere, out of time, out of order, thrown from the future or perhaps from the past, but landing here, in this place, at this moment, which could be any moment, which means, you guess, it’s no moment.
It appears to be a film.
HERBERT AND DUNHAM RIDE BICYCLES (1896)
HERBERT ’N’ ME is ridin’ bi-cycles over to Anastasia Island. They got that new bridge now. It’s November 30, 1896, and almost dark but not just yet. I don’t know ’zactly the weather because they don’t got records this far back, but it’s Florida, so it’s probably warm, no matter when. Anyways, we’s yippin’ an’ hollerin’ and whatnot, the things young boys do, on account of us being just that, and full of beans to boot. I’m about to tell a tall tale to Herbert about a ghost on account of I know he spooks easy and it’s always fun to try ’n’ get a rise outta him. Herbert an’ me, we met on account of the Sisters taking us both in when we was real little cuz we was orphan babies that got found right in the Tolomato grave yard, no lie, which is itself pretty spooky, if ya think about it. So the Sisters, they took us in and that’s how we met, and now we’re both adopted by the Widow Perkins, who is old and lonesome and she wanted some boys around to make her feel young again an’ not so alone, she says. But that’s not here nor there as we ride our bi-cycles toward Crescent Beach on account of the fishin’ is good there for croakers. It’s still not dark and we grab our poles and leave our bi-cycles and make our way down to the water.
“What’s that?” says Herbert.
I don’t rightly know, but since I been plannin’ on spookin’ him anyways, I say, “Maybe a spook, Herbert.”
Now, Herbert wants to hightail it back to town when he hears that, so I tell him I’m only just foolin’ and t’ain’t no such thing as a spook in truth, and that seems to convince him it might could be worthwhile to get closer and investigate.
Herbert agrees with some trepidatiousness to proceed to the lump, for that’s what it appears to be, a lump.
Well, sir, it is large! I’m no measurin’ expert, but I’m guessin’ it has to be twenty feet long and ten feet wide. It has four arms. It’s white and feels rubbery hard like the soles of the Colchester athletic shoes Widow Perkins bought me for my last birthday at which I was ten. Herbert won’t touch the thing, but I can’t keep my hands off it.
“What do you s’pose it is?” Herbert says.
“I don’t know, Herbert,” I say. “What has the mighty sea thrown up to us? Who can know what lurks in the inky dark, black murkiness of the sea? It’s kind of like a, what do you call it, metaphor for the human mind in all its unknowability.”
Herbert nods, bored. He’s heard this all before. Even though we’re close as real brothers, we are very different. Herbert is not interested in matters of the spirit or mind. One might say he’s more of a pragmatis’, truth be told. But he puts up with my speculatin’, and I love him for indulgin’ me. So I continue: “The Bible that the Sisters learnt us at the orphanage is chock-full of fish symbolism, and from what I heared, there’s fish in almost all mythological traditions, be they from the Orient or otherwise. Fact, from what I been told, there’s a young Swizzerland feller name of Carl Young, who believes fish is symbolic of the unconscious—is it unconscience or unconscious? I can never remember.”
Herbert shrugs.
“Anyhow,” I continue, “makes me think of that feller Jonah from the Jew Bible. He gets himself swallowed by a giant fish on account of he’s shirkin’ what God wants of him. After a spell, God has that fish vomit him out on the shore. Now we have this fish vomited out here on our shore. Is this the opposite of Jonah? Did God have some giant human feller swallow this fish just to throw him up here? I know the Bible is not s’posed to be read literal-like but more like, what do you call it, allegorical and what have you. But here we are with a giant mysterious fish-thing. And it has four arms! Like a fish dog. Or half a octopus. Or two-thirds a ant. It’s mysterious!”
I look at Herbert. He’s absently poking the monster with a stick.
“C’mon,” I say. “Let’s tie it to our bi-cycles with seaweed strands and pull it to town.”
Now, Herbert likes a task as much as anyone, so his eyes light up and we set to work. Once the whole thing is secured, we get on our bi-cycles and try to ride away. The seaweed snaps pretty quick, causing Herbert and me to fly off our bi-cycles into a ditch, which tells me the sea monster is heavier than we originally figgered. I’m no expert on weights or measurements, as I told you.
It’s Herbert’s idea to go an’ get Doc Webb from town. He’s the educatedest man in St. Augustine and an expert in the workings of the natural world. He’s also the doctor at the Blind and Deef School, and that’s where we find him, taking the temperchers of two little boys with no eyes.
“What’s up, fellas?” he asks, to us, not the blind boys, which I guess he already knows the answer to.
“We thought you might wanna know we discovered a sea monster just now on the Crescent Beach,” I say, all puffed up and such.
“Is this true, Herbert?” Doc Webb asks Herbert.
Herbert nods, then adds, “We believe it’s from the Jew Bible and such.”
This isn’t exactly true, but I’m surprised Herbert heared even that much.
“Well, I can’t investigate till tomorrow. There’s an entire dormitory of eyeless children whose vital signs need measuring and recording. Not to mention the earless children across campus.”
An’ as Doc Webb hurries off to attend to his duties, sumthin’ strikes me an’ it strikes me so hard it damn near knocks me off my feet.
“Herbert,” I say. “What if that mound of stuff was us?”
“Like how?” asks Herbert.
“Like, say there was many of us—”
“Of you and me?”
“Yes. You and me, but ’cept babies of us from the future, that get all jammed up together in their travel back in time to now, all jammed together into one, single unholy monstrosity of flesh. So that maybe it ain’t no sea monster on the beach at all, but just us?”
“You and me?”
“Just a notion. But it makes a feller wonder.”
MY BEARD IS a wonder. It is the beard of Whitman, of Rasputin, of Darwin, yet it is uniquely mine. It’s a salt-and-pepper, steel-wool, cotton-candy confection, much too long, wispy, and unruly to be fashionable. And it is this, its very unfashionability, that makes the strongest statement. It says, I don’t care a whit (a Whitman!) about fashion. I don’t care about attractiveness. This beard is too big for my narrow face. This beard is too wide. This beard is too bottom-heavy for my bald head. It is off-putting. So if you come to me, you come to me on my terms. As I’ve been bearded thusly for three decades now, I like to think that my beard has contributed to the resurgence of beardedness, but in truth, the beards of today are a different animal, most so fastidious they require more grooming than would a simple clean shave. Or if they are full, they are full on conventionally handsome faces,