Beneath Ceaseless Skies #219 Read online

  They duck out the front door, into the chill of night. “FIRE!” calls Miss Carla into the darkness, pacing quickly toward a nearby house. She raps on the window. “FIRE! SOUND THE BELLS!”

  Black Jonas scans the promenade; his heart stops for a moment when he sees Essie’s empty mooring post. But then he remembers that he gave her free rein for the night; she’ll be lurking somewhere nearby, hunting for food. He takes large steps toward the canal.

  “Nobody’s answering,” says Miss Carla, toddling back toward him. “Why is nobody answering?” The night air is cold, and Black Jonas can see that Miss Carla is trembling.

  He stops her with a hand on the shoulder. “Miss Carla,” says Black Jonas, soft as he can. “I got to leave. Right now. I do hope you understand.”

  “But why—” Miss Carla begins. But she figures it out quick enough. Her eyes flick up at Black Jonas, and for a split second he catches a real sad look on her face; a look of genuine regret. “My,” she mutters, staring at the sky. “My.”

  Black Jonas glances around. “Listen to me,” he says, speaking quickly. “You ain’t done anything wrong, you understand? You ain’t involved. I’m going to take Essie and leave now, and when I’m gone, you tell them anything they want, hear? Tell ‘em I’m headed for Sweetwater County. It’s the truth. You got that?”

  Miss Carla nods.

  Black Jonas turns and crosses the wide promenade, his steps heavy. The air smells of smoke. The old ball of guilt festers in his belly: he knows it’s best for everyone if he disappears quickly as possible. Maybe someday he’ll come back and make it up to Miss Carla. But he knows it isn’t likely. He’s got too many somedays lined up inside him already.

  He stops at the water’s edge and brings out Essie’s calling whistle. He lifts the reed to his lips. But before he blows it, someone wolf-whistles behind him.

  “Just stop yerself right there, Gentle Jonas.”

  * * *

  Black Jonas spins, every hair on his neck standing up. The first thing he sees is Miss Carla, her arms pinioned by two sleazy-looking men. The second thing he sees is Jimmy DeRoi, strolling up behind them with his hand on his pistol butt.

  “Take one more step toward that water, and I’ll shoot the lady.”

  Black Jonas hesitates for an instant. He lifts his palms slowly into the air. Why her?! he wants to scream.

  “Drop the reed,” says Jimmy.

  He does.

  Jimmy DeRoi flicks the butt of his cigarette away. He smiles like a cat at dinner. “See, I knew threatening a lady would work on you. You’re a gentleman. Always have been.” He takes leisurely steps to cross the distance between them, then gets his face right up to Black Jonas’s. His voice is low, confidential. “Course, that is why Tom and Lottie trusted you, when all you were was a SNAKE!”

  Black Jonas flinches from the spittle that accompanies the last word. He sees, over Jimmy’s shoulder, that Miss Carla has gone pure white.

  Black Jonas swallows. He speaks calmly, evenly, with his eyes locked on Miss Carla. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. I really am.” He swallows. “I’m sorry for what I did to Tom and Lottie. I don’t got no better excuse. And Lord knows every night for the past twenty years I’ve hated myself for it.” He motions at Miss Carla with his chin. “Let the woman go.”

  Jimmy DeRoi laughs. “Sentimental shit like that,” he says, shaking his head. He draws his pistol, plays with the hammer, levels it at Black Jonas. “Not going to work on me, Gentle Jonas. You hear?”

  Black Jonas swallows again. Jimmy moves back close, and Black Jonas smells the cigarette-sour on his breath.

  Jimmy frees Black Jonas’s pistol from its holster, then backs up a couple steps, holding both guns. “Now a gentleman like you doesn’t want to die yelling and screaming, does he? So I’ll give you better than you deserve. One clean shot. A clean fall in the water. And then we’re even for Tom and Lottie. But you make one false move, and I’ll have you beaten till you beg for death. You hear me?”

  Black Jonas shuts his eyes. His heart is pumping in his ears. The night wind is cold against his back, and he knows he should be planning something: an escape route, an attack path, a way to free Miss Carla, something. But all he feels is an indescribable weariness. Even after all these years, he’s still hurting people. An innocent woman’s home is burning up because of him. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he just went quietly, like Jimmy said.

  And would it be so much of a loss, really? He left home so long ago. He had a brother, and a little niece. Suzie. But no, she was too young, she wouldn’t remember him.

  It might even be nice to die in the ocean, Black Jonas thinks. After all, it was where he wasted his life.

  When he opens his eyes again, he’s looking down the barrel of Jimmy DeRoi’s gun.

  “Made your peace?” says Jimmy. “Good.” He cocks the hammer.

  “NO!” screams Miss Carla, struggling. “You damn, dirty—” Her arm wrenches free. Her elbow catches one of the men straight on the chin, and he lets out a pained “uuugh.”

  Something happens inside Black Jonas. It’s as if the sight of Miss Carla fighting snaps something back to life in his chest, some prehistoric part that still wants to fight, to struggle, to live.

  Jimmy’s eyes flicker sideways, just for an instant. And Black Jonas’s arm whips up, slamming into Jimmy’s elbow like a sledgehammer. He yanks Jimmy’s arm down and hits him square in the face, moving in too close for Jimmy to fire—he squeezes Jimmy’s gun hand with iron fingers, tightening his grip until Jimmy squeals and releases. Then Black Jonas spins and, with his own pistol in his other hand—BLAM. BLAM.—the two goons fall, bullets in their foreheads.

  Jimmy shrieks and pushes off of Black Jonas. He flings his hands up immediately, backing up as quick as he can. “H-hey,” Jimmy says. “Wait. Wait.”

  “Don’t you move,” says Black Jonas. “Stop, Jimmy.” But Jimmy keeps on backpedalling.

  And suddenly an icy chill goes through Black Jonas. Jimmy is backing up straight toward the canal. And there’s a shadow behind him.

  It happens too quickly for Black Jonas to react. A giant, snakelike head whips out of the canal and chomps down on Jimmy’s left thigh. Jimmy screams. In one fluid, powerful movement, Essie yanks him into the water.

  “Stop! Stop! Essie!” yells Black Jonas, dropping the guns and scrabbling on the ground for her whistle.

  But by the time he finds it, it’s too late. The screaming has stopped. The thrashing is over, and a strange quiet fills the air. Black Jonas kneels on the promenade, stunned.

  His hands are shaking, and his fist is throbbing where he punched Jimmy. He’s murdered again. Twice. And Essie ripped up Jimmy DeRoi.

  And she did it to protect him.

  * * *

  The only sound then is the snap of burning wood. The smell of char and burning fabrics is everywhere, and a wall of heat scalds the back of his neck.

  “Pleeboy,” says Miss Carla, coming up behind him. “Pleeboy. When they find Jimmy dead like this, they’ll kill us.”

  Black Jonas doesn’t know what to say. Essie emerges from the water, and Miss Carla shrieks. But Essie just bobs there, grinning.

  Black Jonas goes to Essie, touches the top of her sandpapery head. “You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he whispers. “He was my problem, not yours. I was supposed to take care of it.”

  Essie snorts.

  “I know, I know.” Black Jonas touches his head to hers, his still-wet tears mixing with her seawater. “I shouldn’t’ve. I shouldn’t’ve thought about leaving you.”

  Miss Carla creeps up cautiously. “It didn’t—it didn’t eat him, did it?”

  “No,” says Black Jonas. “Essie wouldn’t do that. Would you, Essie?”

  Essie exhales forcefully.

  Black Jonas studies Miss Carla. There’s blood flecks on her face and fear in her eyes. Behind her, sparks shoot into the night sky from the conflagration consuming her home. The surrounding houses observe in silence—nobody
has rung the fire bell still.

  Black Jonas flattens his palm against Essie’s neck, urges her closer to shore. He grabs her reins.

  “Have you ever ridden a pleesaur before?” he says to Miss Carla.

  She stares at him. “You’ve got to be funning me.”

  Black Jonas steps onto Essie’s back and plants himself in the saddle. “If they find us, they’ll kill us. Right?”

  “I’m not getting on that thing! It just ate a man!”

  “I know,” says Black Jonas quietly. His eyes flick over her shoulder. “But looks like you need a new hole to hide in.”

  Miss Carla hesitates only a few seconds. She glances back at her lodge, watches the flames leap and crackle. She clutches her bag, and her mouth forms a determined line. Then, reaching out to Black Jonas for balance, she totters onto Essie’s wide back, swinging her arms. She manages to stay upright by grabbing a saddlehorn on Essie’s rump.

  Black Jonas gives the reins a snap, and Essie surges away from shore.

  A long ‘v’ trails behind them in the water, highlighted by the orange light of flame. It’s only when they reach the outskirts of town, at Main Canal, that the fire bells clatter to life. Black Jonas and Miss Carla see the pump-skiffs of the fire brigade, clanging away at full volume, race down the waterway ahead of them.

  Black Jonas pulls to the side of the canal and watches them pass.

  * * *

  “Where do you want me to bring you?” says Black Jonas, a while later. They are out on the open sea, Essie chugging along like a rough black island, and Black Jonas hasn’t yet decided what to do. When they find a good town for Miss Carla, he reckons, he’ll stay a while and help her set up a new life. Somewhere safe. And after that? Maybe he’ll move on to the next town. Somewhere far from Benessa, where maybe he can take another small job. Another tiny step toward home.

  “Doesn’t matter. Wherever.” Miss Carla has found a bit of space to stretch out, facing backward. She seems comfortable, watching the waves fan out behind them.

  “Don’t you got someplace to go?” Black Jonas asks.

  “Not really.”

  “No family?”

  Miss Carla laughs. “Lost touch with them years ago, when I moved out to Benessa. Wouldn’t know where to find them even if I wanted to. I told you, when a woman’s husband dies round here, she becomes nothing.”

  “Say,” says Black Jonas. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. If you been married, aren’t you supposed to be Mizz Carla? Ain’t miss for young girls?”

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “When you get older, you’ll see. The names you choose for yourself are the most important of all.”

  Black Jonas thinks about it. Essie chugs along for a while in silence.

  “So what say we head to the next island?” Black Jonas says. “Essie and me can take you that way. If it strikes your fancy, we’ll stay awhile and help you get settled. If not, you’re welcome to keep going with us, maybe take a gander at the next. That sound alright to you, Miss?”

  “That sounds just fine, pleeboy.”

  And there’s something about the sunlight that morning that glints off the waves like liquid silver. It reminds Black Jonas of precious, beaten metals, dredged from the depths of the ocean. It reminds him of the sheen off his six-shooter, of the old promise of freedom and glory.

  He gives one more thought to Benessa County, of the abandoned warehouses, the mooring bays, the corrals. Built for a different age. He is glad that part of his life is over. He knows he will never go back.

  He turns to Miss Carla. “You know, you don’t have to keep calling me pleeboy,” he says, adjusting the brim of his hat.

  “Oh?”

  “Starting now, you can just call me Jonas.”

  Copyright © 2017 Jeremy Sim

  Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

  Jeremy Sim is a Singaporean-American writer and author of over a dozen published stories, including appearances in Cicada, Crossed Genres, Flash Fiction Online, and previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies. He is a graduate of Odyssey Writing Workshop and Clarion West Writers Workshop, where he received the Octavia E. Butler Scholarship. By day he works in the video game industry, having lent his pen to titles such as the critically acclaimed Endless Space 2. He currently lives in Seattle, Washington, and writes for En Masse Entertainment. Find him online at @jeremy_sim or www.jeremysim.com.

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  COVER ART

  “Source,” by Florent Llamas

  Florent Llamas is a freelance artist based in France. He specializes in concept design and illustration, with over a hundred works to his credit. See more of his art online at Tumblr, ArtStation, and DeviantArt.

  Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  ISSN: 1946-1076

  Published by Firkin Press,

  a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization

  Compilation Copyright © 2017 Firkin Press

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