Trembling With Fear 03/06/2022

The Beast of T’Moma River by Jonathan Sherwood

With a shrug, the dull metal bow of the canoe came around. From the rear I watched the muddy water writhe silently alongside until its eddies dissipated, leaving the boat turning gently and the hazy sun glinting its way along the gunwales. The fog rode across the cold eye of the sun like a sinewy, migrating membrane. I paid no attention. My every glance, every thought, was underlined with the dark metal of the rifle barrel as I craned forward, lining up the sight on every ripple that stayed too long, every curl of mist that defied the breeze. No sounds. Quiet enough to hear your ears ring. Quiet enough to hear your hair prickle. I wasn’t alone out here.

“We’re all alone out here,” he said, lying down in the bow, legs draped over the seat, head wedged into the prow. A long reed he’d scored off a sandbar twitched in his mouth.

“Shut up,” I whispered.

“Yeah, yeah. I shut up. I also getting cold.”

“Shut up.”

The veins and tendons and ligaments of the mist trailed across the dark white glow of the sun. Clouds aren’t supposed to stay this low. Maybe at night. But by this time in the day, they go back up where they live. A cloud that enjoys slumming enough to stay the day has got other agenda. 

A tiny little wave trickled a crest, and my rifle snapped to and eyed it intently.

“What are you expecting?”

I didn’t answer.

“Chrissake. Ya drag me out here—”

“Shut up.”

“Shut you up. You got me out here all spooked, then we sit here for hours and do nadda. I’m getting cold.”

“You ever seen fog like this?”

“Yep. Every goddamn morning. Warm water, cold air. Don’t take rocket science.”

“You ever see a fog like this?”

He finally opened his eyes. With a hand to his hat, he wriggled out of his wedge, sat up, and swung the reed over one side of the boat, then the other.

“What – is it like some special color? Waitaminit. Is that—?”

I turned to look, my gunmetal snout arcing to follow.

“Oh my god. Is that—?”

“What?” I asked, the end sight cutting a zigzag through the membrane around us. “What?”

“By god it is! The fog’s green! It’s actual pea soup!”

He laughed as I re-seated myself and took aim again into the undulating gray around us.

“Goddamn. What’re we doin’ out here? Would ya tell me just that?”

The fog reached out again and stroked the stern. We twisted a little in the water. You couldn’t tell we were moving, except by keeping an eye on the hazy outline of the sun.

“You remember?” I asked, quietly. It was like talking in space. As soon as your words left your mouth, they were gone. You only got to hear them in your head. As soon as they weren’t made up of breath anymore, they found their own way in the world. You never heard from them again. “You remember how we always came up here when we were little?”

“Gee, if I try real hard.”

An arrow of mist edged along the surface and hit us like a slow torpedo. It made its own silent explosion. Would never have known it’d happened if I hadn’t been watching. The rest of the arsenal churned around on itself like an angry stomach.

“Remember how this valley sounded? How it echoed?”

“Yeah. Damn loudest place in the world. Finally got rid of that little beach ‘cuz everybody was pissed about people laughing. Sound bounced back and forth all over the place. Pissed everybody off.”

“Everybody,” I nodded. Something tried to take form off the port side, but backed off when it saw the rifle looking at it.

“Damn, they even passed a thing about motorboats. No motorboats anywhere up and down the river. A motorboat five miles away would echo down here like it was on yer front porch. Whatda they call it? Acrostics?”

“Acoustics.”

“Yeah, croustics. God, everybody complained down here.”

“You ever see fog like this?”

“Goddamn, I told you it’s thick like pea soup. What else you want me to say?”

The one eye tracking the gaze of the rifle glanced over at him. It was the only time the rifle didn’t follow my eye. I turned my attention back to the mist. Something was moving in there. Maybe it would happen today. Maybe it would come out.

“You know, every year when we come up here, you get all funny.”

I could feel the mist moving, shuffling around us like an itchy crowd.

“I always find you down on the dock, taking notes in the mornin’. Fact, you been doing it fer years and years and years. Almost every morning, down on the dock, lookin’ out over the water, writin’ stuff. Damn waste. What’re you writin’ about all the damn time?”

“The mist. The way it comes off the water.”

“What’re you gonna do with it? Sell it to the farmer’s almac?”

“I saw a fog like this, once.”

“Bully fer you.”

“Twenty years back. I was sitting on the dock, sun rose up into it. It was dead silent, like this, but thick, so thick it completely swallowed the sun.”

He looked at me, bored.

“That’s when I felt it.”

He waited for me to continue. Just enough tension built up for him to break it.

“Felt what?”

“The beast. I knew it was there. I’ve been waiting, every year, waiting for this fog. Every single year. If it’s the right fog, it’ll come.”

Something moved. I took the sight tight into my eye. The butt pressed firmly into my shoulder. Tiny ripples slipped out under the mist. He saw me flinch and lowered his voice.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Something awful is out here.”

“Don’t be bullshittin’ me. Ya got me jumpy.”

“Think about it. You said it yourself. This place is the loudest valley anyone ever heard of. How come we don’t hear anything now?”

He didn’t say anything, just stared out into the gray that seemed to take form, but didn’t. Water trickled down my ribs under my arms. The end of the rifle bobbed with my pulse.

“You ever seen fog you could touch? It always keeps a discreet distance. But not this stuff. Lookit, it’s no more than three feet away.”

“Hey, I don’t like this. Home, let’s get home.”

“Not until I kill it.”

“Kill what? What’s out there? Damnit, I ain’t up for your crap.”

It was hard to keep the rifle still. Something moved. Shifted about. Slid across the water. Left no footprints.

“You’re a damn fool, you know that?”

It was coming.

“You always was. Ever since we was kids, you been up to somethin’ stupid.”

Ripples flowed out under the curtain.

“Always thinkin’ about stupid things and never doin’ em.”

The fog stepped closer.

“Always with yer head in books, dreamin’ up monsters instead of helpin’ out.”

The cold glow of the sun, just a few feet away, faded.

“I’m getting us out. I got things to do.”

Something loomed, sinuous, tendons, arteries, giant shifting cells.

“Yer a stupid dreamer, ya know that?”

The sun eclipsed. No directions left. I could hardly hold the rifle.

“Where’s the paddle?”

Like an iris, the fog closed in. Tight, silent, omniscient.

“Stupid. Always was.”

I swung the rifle, saw the thing at the end of a long line of gunmetal gray, and squeezed the trigger as hard as I could.

I didn’t even see his expression. His head just snapped back, his body arched, and he back-somersaulted over the bow. The shout of the barrel ran into the fog. Like shooting in outer space. No sound. He hit the water as quietly as sliding into a bathtub. In the loudest valley in the world, I couldn’t even hear my own rifle. The mist extended a consoling hand to my shoulder, then passed along like a crowd with somewhere to go.

I laid the rifle across my lap, picked up the paddle, and set it to the water. In less than a minute, the mist rose back into the sky where it belonged, and the Beast of T’Moma River paddled quietly home.