Ved-ava's Curse

Introduction

Ask any member of a coastal community to tell you about the storm of the century, and you’re bound to get an earful. Depending on where they fall along the timeline, they’ll either recount the drama first hand, or spin the tales passed down by their kin. Either way there’s always a certain pride associated with surviving the big one that leads to embellishments, and liberties taken in bragging rights which one would be hard pressed to back meteorologically. It really doesn’t matter what the actual wind force was, or how many inches of rain came to pass. What matters is that there were survivors, and that that day was one to behold.

Even more treacherous; however, are the storms which are conveniently forgotten- the events locals hope will pass as natural, albeit tragic, so that a finer balance is not upset between these survivors and their demons. Ved-ava’s Curse is such a yarn woven through the fabric of time for those who will to believe.

Prologue

The Unspoken Storm

The year was 1838. The Pacific Northwest remained largely untamed despite mapping of its coastal waters sixty years earlier by Captain James Cook on his final voyage of exploration. Fur traders, using Fort Astor near the mouth of the Columbia River, made up the primary white presence since Lewis and Clark’s brief visit with the Corps of Discovery in 1805. Native American inhabitants witnessed few newcomers apart from traders and the occasional mountain man since then, but the land known as the Oregon Country was poised to undergo a dramatic population change. Fur traders would become lost in a sea of humanity destined to flood across the untamed land to the coast, starting with the missionaries.

One early settler in particular had a very specific mission, a family legacy to fulfill. His name was Angus MacDonell, a thick, hearty man of Scottish descent in his late forties with dark hair and rugged features. He’d paid close attention to the promising words coming back from the Corps of Discovery followed by speculation during the growing fur trade era, and began his arduous trek west to be in place by 1838. It became apparent to Angus that Seaside (its present day name) would be a critical site during the next time of reckoning. He was confident that a population boom was imminent along the shores Lewis and Clark had spoken so highly of. And those immigrants making their way to this coast by ship would certainly meet with enduring peril at the appointed time without his intervention. He was all too familiar with the lengths desperate or greedy people would go to for advancement, and how his sworn enemy could exploit that drive.

Angus wasn’t the first in his family line called to be a protector. His great-great-grandfather had been recruited by the Sect of Japheth over a hundred years ago, and passed on the mantle of that calling through each male MacDonell that followed. Angus had watched first hand as his father fought valiantly against the shadowy hoards of enemies from the last reckoning. This coincided quite conveniently with the time of the Highland Clearances. The fight was masked all too well by the sorrows of those cleared from village after village. Angus still had three disfiguring vertical scars across the right side of his face where he’d almost fallen victim to marauders from the sea. He was spared when his father intervened, unleashing the wrath of his special calling upon Angus’s aggressors. Angus was only four then, but remembered the emotionally charged times quite clearly.

Angus’s family had just been forcibly evicted from their small croft in the Scottish Highlands. Prime land was to be made available for the surge of sheep farming, fancied by money hungry land barons starting in the late 1700s, regardless of the ill fate suffered by its current tenants. Families were forced to rebuild what life they could on sparse plots along the barren North Coast, or emigrate to other countries. Angus’s father had been forewarned by members of the Sect of Japheth that such a scenario may unfold with the approach of a time of reckoning, and thwarted his evil landlord’s plan to be permanently rid of his charges. The aftermath of battle from the night the MacDonells were attacked was too mysterious for locals to understand, much less believe. Locals were all too familiar with stories of the silkies. Seal creatures would shed their fur skins on land assuming human form. They sometimes spent years with human partners in normal family life before finding their hidden pelts. They’d don their fur again, and rejoin their kind in the sea. However; Angus’s father, Robert, told neighboring crofters a much more sinister version of such lore when inquiries arose regarding his son’s recent injury. Although the last execution of a witch in Scotland occurred in 1722; the fear of witches and warlocks hadn’t lost its hold in their area of the countryside. Robert MacDonell’s whole clan was shipped off to the Carolinas of North America to appease the locals’ suspicion and public outcry.

Ironically, after overcoming the assault of supernatural assailants on the north shore of Scotland, Angus’s father succumbed to disease amidst the poor conditions aboard the crowded schooner during their Atlantic crossing. This left Angus without a proper mentor and only a few mysterious possessions in a small locking chest: a marine chronometer of obscure design, a weathered book in foreign print, and a lead crystal crested dirk.

As a young boy, Angus remembered the assault against him in Scotland, and the bright white fire and dancing lights his father had created which saved him. Angus inquired once, when old enough to ponder the possibility, if his father had indeed practiced the art of witchcraft. His cousin, a simple minded man, would only hush Angus for such an insinuation, and say ‘Rob wuz a guid man, and A’m no tae ken aboot his special talents.’ The clan would have understood Robert’s white fire had they known of the filled vials he’d been entrusted with by another member of the sect. White phosphorous was a rare product indeed, smuggled in from Arabia.

Angus spent his school years studiously pursuing the sciences, hoping to find the key. He eagerly took in reports of new discoveries that came across the ocean with European passengers who’d arrive on the docks where he worked after school. Wherever Angus went, he was easily accepted amongst circles of higher thinkers, but would just as quickly be discredited as a crackpot when he shared the details of his scarred face. The question always came up, and he’d be alone again. So he soon learned to give a more mundane answer. He passed off that he’d survived an encounter with a Highland wildcat, and actually gained quiet admiration from curious peers who didn’t know otherwise.

Angus worked and saved for years, but never found a woman. His older sister eventually had a family of her own. She tried to match Angus up, but his looks, and odd fascination with science, hit too close to Mary Shelley’s recent work for him to be considered a proper suitor by anyone she’d introduce to him.

Angus became a social recluse in his thirties, only making brief appearances at science fairs and lectures. Otherwise, he’d leave his day job on the docks to tinker and read. He showed great aptitude for the sciences, as have many Scots over the years, and eventually received an invitation to Furman University at its upstart in 1826. This invitation to one of South Carolina’s first prestigious colleges followed a demonstration of his ability to yield magnesium from electrolyzed sea water. He’d taken the work started by Anthony Carlisle and William Nicholson in 1800, and expanded it to satisfy his never ending quest for the white fire. With magnesium, he’d finally found an answer; although not the original substance used by his father’s sect. It was this talent that put him back on the sect’s radar, so to speak, in the Americas as well.

Angus had only been enrolled at university briefly when approached by a secret fraternity-The Sect of Japheth had reacquired a legacy member. Angus was invited to a meeting where he was finally in one accord with his audience as he described the events of his past that shaped him. He met no paranoia, or ridicule, but received in return information that would explain so many unanswered questions he’d carried regarding his father’s position, possessions, and Angus’s own life purpose. Many meetings would follow as a new time of reckoning was approaching in the U.S. Expansive preparations had to be made to ready members of the sect to deal with the vast length of coastline on the North American continent. Angus met with Paul Revere Jr. at one such meeting, where he learned the sect’s use of one if by land, two if by sea; then received a very special item crafted by the silver smith. It was one of several distributed to the sect’s members, embodying all the latest esoteric technology available. It provided Angus with one of the greatest weapons in their arsenal against the enemy yet-a lead crystal Fresnel (fray-NELL) lens. In the few years that followed, Angus made ready to deliver on his vow. He swore to protect the distant shore he suspected would see activity during the upcoming reckoning. He learned to read the ancient text laid down in his father’s book so that he could understand his enemy, and how to conquer its kind in battle. He perfected his Leyden jar, and other equipment he’d use for acquiring magnesium, as he’d have only himself to rely on where he was going.

Angus arrived on his sister’s doorstep one early spring morning to say what may be his final farewell. She waited in uneasy silence as he removed the J shaped key he’d always worn around his neck, unlocked his father’s small chest, and removed the crystal crested dirk. He handed her the key to hold as he strapped the dirk to his side. When she reached out to hand his key back, he curled her fingers around it holding her hand warmly in his. He hugged her, and looked deep in her eyes as he said he’d not have the need to secure the dirk again. If it were ever lost, he’d be too, but his quest was something he could not deny.

Angus headed overland west on a solitary horse, loaded only with the irreplaceable essentials key to his mission. He’d studied how to live off the land rather than be dependent upon outpost provisions. He couldn’t be burdened with money, or become a slow target for potential bandits and raiders. He traveled light compared to the missionary bands he’d pass along the way. He always drew uneasy glances from pious clergy as he approached their flock with his dirk at his side. He’d explain his calling, and they’d immediately offer to save him from his ways. Angus did meet one contemporary evangelist as he sojourned along who actually seemed to understand, if not respect, his quest. The monk-like cleric affectionately dubbed him Mizpah, the guard post, from the mixed blessing uttered by Laban to Jacob in Genesis. The sentiment essentially being may the Lord watch each of our backs while we’re apart, but more so that we might stay distant. Their individual missions of salvation, as applied to any pilgrims destined for the Oregon Country, were both quite valid, but so entirely different that they should not mix. Angus and the parson parted ways after their brief intellectual banter, refreshed and focused on their higher callings. They moved away down separate paths, one taking the high road, the other the low road. The parson sauntered along whistling Old Hundredth from the Scots Metrical Psalter. Angus began to hum Auld Lang Syne responding to a sudden pining triggered by the parson’s tune. He longed for the land and people from his youth. Angus grinned as the pastor faded out of earshot appreciating their similar heritage after all. He’d not meet such a kindred spirit in the months to come. In fact, each passing day of his trek westward left Angus feeling further alienated from those he hoped to protect. He quickly outdistanced the first caravans of settlers, and eventually left even the established fur traders behind as he turned south from Fort Astor to forge his own path to the base of Tillamook Head. It was there that he began to build his private outpost with only the occasional curious tribe member from the nearby Neacoxy and Necotat villages to check on his progress.

Angus quickly crafted a stone and log shanty where he’d come and go between tasks along the shore and high up on the point. Tribal scouts didn’t know what to make of his electrolysis setup. They’d watch as he feverishly cranked his fur wrapped spinning wheel, hearing a strange crackling as it rubbed against a fixed amber rod. There would be the odd smell of ozone, known only from lightning strikes, and bubbles coming off his basins of sea water. The coupled Leyden jars transferred the harvested static electrons to the brine solution. This process was completely foreign to that of the salt works the natives had observed in the winter of 1806. This new white man seemed bewitched as he’d labor for days along the shore, and then run batches of his grey powder up to the top of a rickety tower he’d constructed on the point of Tillamook Head. Angus’s tower was an odd totem indeed. They’d seen him fitting his crystal Fresnel lens once to a swivel outside what looked to be an elevated burn pile, but it wasn’t left in place. They couldn’t imagine what strange relationship he had with the gods, but gave yahka klaksta tamahnous koosagh piah (he who conjures magic sky fire) his space.

Angus seized every clear day to make ready until he could work no more. He was eventually forced inside by a series of early showers which had piled together. He couldn’t continue his electrolysis process amidst the endless moisture which seemed to firmly announce the onset of autumn. Anyone might have welcomed the imposed work interlude, but Angus was soon struck by a fever inside his dank shanty. He’d been working solo for so long and hard he couldn’t be sure how many meals he may have missed, or how exhausted his core had become from inadequate rest. Angus turned to the only support he had for recovery, his possible bag. The possible bag held a cluster of Old World remedies, not nearly as devastating as Lewis and Clark’s thunder pills, that one could use to treat whatever might possibly go wrong with their health. Angus withdrew some ma-huang root, which he then chewed, and laid down to await its effect. He must have needed rest more than he thought because he was soon out despite the fact that the root should have acted as a stimulant. His dreams were lively; however, and had him thrashing in his sleep. They were a reflection of the same pitching and reeling sensations his fever had caused while awake.

Angus was dreaming of a clipper on the high seas. His point of view hovered above two deck hands struggling with rigging lines amidst a foul gale.

How could this be? yelled one of the mates. There’s the devil in this one!

You saw the skies, Johannes, called the other. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning!

Is this second sight? thought Angus, somewhere short of full consciousness. The characters in Angus’s dream seemed so vivid. He suddenly felt all their fears and ambitions. The ship in his dreams was the Endeavour II. She had been at sail for months making a crossing from Europe. Her passengers were primarily British. They’d seized the opportunity to voyage during the period of deferred resolution following the Oregon Boundary disputes; a time when British and Americans alike were allowed to immigrate to the Oregon Country for settlement purposes. The crew as well would be given the chance to make a new home port on the Oregon Coast should they choose to do so. All aboard were eager to end their last leg around Tillamook Head, and be safely on land again. Every soul longed for a piece of land they could call their own. This hope beckoned sometimes louder than reason; pushing each, including the ship’s captain, to move forward with reckless abandon. They were only a day from their destination, but it had become their longest since a terrible offshore storm was threatening to engulf the Endeavor II. The tempest around them fell faster and darker than the sunset itself.

On shore, Angus woke with a start. It was dark and blustery outside. How long had he drifted between consciousness? He was dripping in a cold sweat. He reached out from his plain padded cot to light his tin lantern. The wind howled outside. Angus worked the pieces of his tinderbox with stiff hands until he had produced a small flame. With lantern lit, he inspected his burning right forearm. An arced welt had become much more pronounced since he’d first noticed it days ago. Angus reached for his possible bag again. This time he’d use a bit of aloe to sooth his odd rainbow shaped rash. This along with his fever; An’ noo A’m getting’ an air to battle in me dreams! As the salve began to provide relief, Angus contemplated the meaning of his vivid dream. He was sure now it had been second sight. The sect had said he might experience such a thing. It was all becoming so real; the legend, the training, the timing. Ding! Angus jumped, nearly striking his head on the low thatched roof of his shanty. The chime had come from inside his father’s small chest. Sudden nervous tension coursed through Angus. He knew the time had come.

Angus opened the small chest revealing the unique chronometer inside. The alchemic dials had moved so that salt, water, ethereal, and Aquarius (multiplication) symbols had all aligned. As the bell tone faded, a ship silhouette manifested under the pointer on the outer bezel. A bead of sweat dripped from Angus’s bangs onto the dial making a faint ping as it landed. Angus recognized the ship from his dream. It was the Endeavor II. He didn’t see it as just a picture, but a ship in peril. His heart beat faster empathizing with those aboard. A cold shudder ran down his spine as he gathered his gear. The glint from his dirk’s edge would mean nothing to the foe. He couldn’t remember ever seeing one bleed, but they’d spilled his blood easily enough. He sheathed his dirk, and strapped it to his side knowing its only melee strength lie in its crystal pommel. He threw on his long rider’s coat. The adrenaline rush made it difficult to steady his hands for working the front buttons, but he managed. He pocketed his tinderbox, and retrieved his special lens case. He caught his reflection off a polished metal plate mirror as he turned for the door. He was flush. His scarred, lined face was gaunt. He looked like he’d been through the worst, but knew his real trials waited ahead in the storm.

At sea, the Endeavor II was pitching and rolling violently between towering waves. Its passengers were huddled deep in its belly, uncertain what fate might bring, while its crew fought to avoid being swept away by sheets of breaking water on deck. Controlling the vessel was a lost cause. They were on to damage control. Lightning flashes revealed exposed rocks and land ahead. Breaking up on Tillamook Head seemed as likely an outcome now as being swamped. They prepared for the worst.

Inland, a tiny beacon of light moved upwards through the hillside forest. A lone rider, Angus, with a simple tin lantern charged his steed against the raging Pacific storm toward a darkened rickety light tower at the bluff’s point high above the rocky shore. Branches snapped and clawed at his advance threatening to rip him from his mount with every yard he advanced up the steep forest path. A thin wooden case slapped against his drenched saddlebags in rhythm with the galloping. His mind began to reel with doubt.

This coastal outlook had been his self-assigned post, but had he taken on too much going it alone? He’d hoped for an heir whose youthful vigor might be more in line with the task at hand, but no woman would ever have him, much less follow him to the coast for a hard life amongst the unknown. Even his own sister, safely back in South Carolina, had berated him for setting out on such a fool crusade. He didn’t have time to second guess his commitment now. He spurred his mount harder hoping his forced resolve would somehow solicit greater support for his cause from what was now his only companion. The tower rose maybe ninety yards ahead.

Hya! C'mon boy! he yelled over the howling wind. Giddy up! The steed snorted trying to give more, but was also feeling the wear since their travels west. Angus steadied the case with one hand, nearly dropping the lantern, while gripping the reins tighter with the other. The arced blemish on his right forearm stung from the driving rain, but he ignored the pain. He squinted through the deluge at the clipper billowing precariously close to the cove below as he neared the crest. Too late boy, Angus thought as a pungent new blast entered his heaving chest. He knew this smell was not of the forest. They were here. His own ripe odor, pressed into repeatedly worn garments between irregular bathing, would have driven away any other natural creatures as it was released by the soaking rain while he rode.

His steed reared back whinnying in terror as dark figures moved down the slope to surround it. It had been decades since Angus last encountered their kind, but there was no doubting these were them- the mermen. They had come ashore as their enchantment would briefly allow. Their very presence was indicator enough that it was a time of reckoning. All Angus’s nightmares from the past faced him again in the flesh. But he’d have to fight solo this time, drawing his strength from within. The vile creatures that’d towered over him as a wee lad still had him by half a meter as a grown man. Sitting high in the saddle would put him at eye level with the sea demons. To gaze into their hollow souls was surreal. Angus felt paralyzed by the sudden encounter. His fever had him moving in slow motion. How did they manage an ambush? What of those aboard the ship! He wrestled to keep a clear mind. The horse spun frantically as Angus clutched tighter wheeling it around, but there was no open escape. Bulgy-eyed, fiendish mermen had closed a circle around them. A rotten, oily discharge sloughed off their flipper-like feet with each step forward while dripping off their scaly, webbed hands onto the branches in their path. The horse froze now pawing anxiously at the ground as the distance closed between what it instinctively knew to be aggressors, and its master.

Angus fumbled with the handle of his dirk, drawing the crystal to the ready. He felt drugged. He held the crystal pommel up to his faint tin lantern with trembling hands. His arms felt like two lead bars. The closest merman curled its leathery lips back exposing more rows of jagged teeth. An unearthly gurgling rose from its throat. The others stopped advancing as Angus held the combined lantern and crystal purposefully between himself and his enemy. Faint rainbows sparkled looking into the crystal, but it didn’t throw the dancing light Angus remembered from his youth. A chorus of gurgling rose with greater energy around him as Angus, in a panic, worked the hasp allowing his lantern’s guard to swing open. The exposed flame shone brighter ever so briefly as he realigned his dirk, casting weak prismatic light through the lead crystal pommel. The raging weather quickly snuffed out the solitaire flame leaving all in the murky torrent of sideways rain. The sour smell of scorched flesh carried from a small smoldering spot on the nearest merman’s chest. Angus now held up his blade in the dark as his last defense.

Like the luminescent lure protruding from the top of the viper fish’s dorsal fin, the Merman Scout’s lantern arched over his head from the thick hump of his armored upper vertebrae. One by one, eerie orbs of luminescent light blinked on from each merman’s antenna-like protrusion. Angus was hopelessly outnumbered. A scaly webbed hand suddenly pierced through the darkness. It struck Angus’s mount causing the horse to buckle under him with a sickening grunt. Angus pitched forward onto the saddle horn in the sudden drop getting the wind knocked out of him. He rolled off to one side, pulling the thin wooden case with him. He slung its harness over his shoulder and braced himself for a second strike. Angus choked back bitter remorse as he heard the last pitiful whinny come from his trusted companion. It surrendered its last breath as the nearest, crouched merman tore at its throat with claw and fang. Angus knew all too well the vicious cutting power the foe could unleash. His deep facial scars were from only a brief moment of contact, and the present assault was being delivered as if by a starved piranha with a conscience committed to sadistic harm. Now Angus was truly alone in his stand against the enemy. He lashed back with his dirk as he tumbled forward, cleaving the light off his steed’s killer. Its writhing stem spewed foul slime across Angus’s chest as he held just below the orb with a death grip. He held his crystal up to the fading luminescent orb yielding only pastel shades of refracted light that scarcely singed the flesh of his foe. Angus needed white light. He could no longer hold the mermen at bay this way.

Angus hurriedly dug out his tinderbox as the mermen now focused solely on him. A full circle of the marauding scouts loomed above him within arm’s reach. They clicked and gurgled their intentions amongst themselves as they hovered menacingly over his huddled heap of nerves. Angus was running on pure adrenaline with no fine motor skills left anymore. Everything he did was in quick, forced, jerking motions. The mermen seemed to relish their trapped prey’s predicament, feeding off Angus’s fear. Killing him outright wouldn’t be a satisfying end. His flesh alone couldn’t sate their appetite for destruction. Angus realized their sadistic need. They’d used his horse to dig at him as they’d once marred his face to stir his father’s passion. He knew if he controlled his breathing, or allowed his racing heart to calm down; it would be a death sentence. So he continued to reel in this self-perpetuating torment as more drew closer. They stood poised to lunge. They held their leathery mouths open taught, promising a painful exit by way of gnashing razors. Angus was sure they’d soon escalate their frenzy to the next level. Their voyeuristic torture ritual gave him his one chance.

That’s right you devils. Watch close. Angus closed his eyes tight. Before the mermen would sense he’d given up hope, and lunge; he rasped his special magnesium striker from his tinderbox hard against the edge of his dirk, releasing a shower of brilliant white sparks. They wouldn’t inflict lasting damage like the deadly rainbow light Angus needed. But their brilliance was completely foreign to the depths at which the mermen normally lurked, leaving them temporarily blinded as they recoiled. Angus opened his eyes having his night vision preserved, and scrambled hastily through the hoard of disoriented assailants avoiding the thicker woods off the path. There’d be no real cover there. He knew the fallen dead branches and tangled brambles would only serve to give away his position while slowing his progress. His best bet would be a foot race for the base of the tower. He had better agility on land, and could climb where they could not manage with flippers. It would sap their enchantment too much to pursue in any other form. Go, go, go! He pushed himself against the odds taking quick, sharp breaths. His lungs and muscles burned. His head felt pressed in a vise. The case banged against his calves as he scrambled up the path away from the recovering foe. While Angus could sprint faster, the mermen’s longer strides had them gaining quickly on his heels. The flash had only bought him seconds; maybe his last.

Angus crashed into the base of the tower in the dark, mashing his knuckles against a support log. He knew from the contrast against the cold driving rain that he was bleeding. He didn’t have time to work his hoist. He’d have to climb the outside, at least until he was out of reach. The terrifying slap of flipper feet grew, pounding up the muddy path behind him as he was reaching for his second handhold. He’d been up the structure countless times making ready, but not on the outside; and not in the pounding rain with the cumbersome case dangling from his shoulders. The wind would catch it like a sail, suddenly tugging him completely off balance as he fought to grasp the slippery logs. He’d shinned up two body lengths before he felt the first tug that was not of the wind. The case’s strap pulled taught across his throat, nearly stripping him off the tower. He instinctively threw his arm like a chicken wing over the first log down to stop his fall, and felt a branch spur dig into his chest as tremendous pressure remained on the strap. Looking down, he could see the luminescent glow of a merman lantern; and made out the extended, wiry arm that had snagged the dangling case. He gasped for breath as the relentless pressure against his throat threatened his very consciousness. His vision began to blur as more orbs approached the tower’s base. A sudden snap of the harness allowed a reviving breath, but he’d lost his lens case. The enraged merman slung it out over the bluff where it tumbled toward the rocks below. The case splintered open as it fell across the rocks, pitching out the broken Fresnel lens in its final descent. Angus swallowed hard, pulling his impaled form off his saving log, and resumed his climb. He still had his dirk and the breath of life. He could make a difference yet. He made faster progress, unimpeded by the case, as he wound his aching frame up through the tower’s support members. The mermen wedged their fins, and grasped with clawed hands, allowing tedious pursuit of their prey.

Angus looked back, when he dared, recognizing the distance he’d placed between himself and his assailants. With rekindled hope he worked toward the final ledge that held his burn pile. He could see the Endeavor II from there, wallowing offshore below, on fire. She was breaking up. Distant screams of desperation carried up through the torrent as survivors of the wrecked vessel bobbed across the frothy waves gripping anything buoyant they could find. Angus felt piercing shame, but his light wasn’t to have been merely a beacon. It was the most formidable weapon the mermen could know. Angus knelt on the platform beside his burn pile gasping in short, painful breaths. Several packs of magnesium shavings had been staggered to allow for a controlled burn- one that would provide ongoing brilliant white light without consuming the outlying lens mount. Angus pulled himself up so he could straddle the span between the fuel packs and lens mount. Below, the orbs grew more distant.

Aye, they ken what’s a comin’! Angus was sure they were fleeing the tower as he retrieved his tinderbox. It was never his intention to be up near the flame, but to control the lens mount remotely with rigged pulleys. He’d have to improvise, exercising extreme caution; as if he hadn’t tempted fate enough already. He still had to think of the flame as his ally while the mermen were clearly his foe. He pulled one of his packets off the pile, shielding it from the whipping volleys of spray with his body. He jabbed his dirk into the wooden deck, bracing the pommel with his shin, and gripped his striker. He could no longer hear the shrieks offshore or gurgling from below-only the howling wind in his stinging ears. Angus rasped his striker rapidly up and down the edge of his dirk, showering the packet with brilliant sparks. They burned Angus’s raw knuckles. He suddenly had a visual to go with his throbbing pain. He was battered, as revealed by the white blaze before him. The packet had caught. He quickly kicked it across atop the burn pile shielding his eyes with his hand. He recovered his dirk, and crouched behind the lens mount away from the searing heat as his pupils constricted from the intense glare. The tower suddenly shuddered. He looked down in horror as he saw swarms of mermen below battering at the base of the tower with logs. The storm was already testing its strength, but it would never hold against their additional dismantling efforts. The structure began to sway. Angus lost his footing, slipping from the lens mount. He grasped firmly at a portion of the control rigging, stopping his fall. There he dangled between the white fire and the mermen below. Sharp snapping came from the splintered logs below as searing, dislodged packets of burning magnesium rained down from above. Angus aimed the dirk’s pommel the best he could as he swung wildly with the pitching tower. Rainbow light refracted through the lead crystal pommel, dancing across the tops of mermen below. Shrill, haunting wails rose from below as those doused by the rainbow light burst into flame, releasing their souls. Their ranks were thinning, but the damage was done.

Survivors from the Endeavor II, drifting through icy swells atop bits of wreckage, witnessed the final collapse of the tower. The white inland flare cascaded down, pitching over the cliff’s edge like the devil’s waterfall. As the glow faded from the water’s surface, the survivors were met by a host of determined mermen.

Angus MacDonell had been cut short in his fight for the souls aboard the Endeavor II; leaving their fate to the elements within the torrent- a storm with no other witnesses to recount.

Chapter 1

Seaside Today

One hundred and seventy years had passed since Angus met his demise unheard and unseen by those he’d hoped to save. The mermen wouldn’t allow his specter’s macabre shell to rest in peace. His flayed body drifted out to sea from the cove to ride over countless waves waiting for a final resting place while his assailants went on to sack his modest outpost.

Since then, the cove had become a surfer’s playground. The waves were strongest there, and on any given day observers in any one of the shorefront condos could pick out the dark outlines of wetsuit clad enthusiasts paddling through volleys of waves searching for the perfect ride. The water was never comfortably warm, so wetsuits were a staple there making extended recreation a possibility.

Beyond where the Tillamook Head tapered off, north of the cove, waves were no longer forced to converge into one pocket, but could span out breaking more smoothly along the straighter shoreline. The reduced wave turmoil along this section of coast yielded less rocky deposits, and more of the lighter sandy sediment which created Seaside’s beach. Here, beachcombers could stroll searching for interesting pieces of driftwood, shells, or sand dollars. Some would even bring metal detectors in hopes of finding manmade treasures washed in with a past as uncertain as their value. More often than not, bits of beverage containers, or rusted clothing fasteners were uncovered after getting a hit. These would give testament to the blasé attitude of the many tourists who’d visit with enough disposable resources to abandon articles lost in a higher tide