Night Sea Journey, A Tale of the Supernatural

PROLOGUE

Horn Island, Rhode Island

The owl rises. A wrinkled blue spreads across the Atlantic. Above the brooding waves, winds blow to leave ancient face prints against the salt-caked windows in the house by the sea. Abasteron House is named for the angel who rules the fifth hour after sunset. A watchful creature, Abasteron can flash the air or whisper a note. She is known for her winter walks across the dunes in the tilting sun.

As angels go, Raphael rules the spring, Uriel the summer. Many know Duma as the angel-prince of dreams, blessed with spiky blond hair and shocking green eyes. The perfection of the universe requires these messengers who, on occasion, assume physical bodies or borrow them from nature.

From the rocky shoreline, all can see Abasteron House, a cream-colored wooden structure on a grassy hill. A fringed garden hugs the house bordered with sea lavender abandoned to run wild. Inside, the walls are painted oyster white. High bleached ceilings pitch into arches over the chimney room—named so because of the twin fireplaces set at each end. The wide floors spread with faded Carolina Ash: white wicker sofa, white stuffed chairs, and a bowl of yellow pears on the whitewood table.

In the bedroom, a woman sleeps under an iron headboard scrolled with delicate birds the color of eggshells. D. Kip Livingston clutches her pillow. Her coverlet is askew, bunched to leave a leg exposed, a foot to dangle on the edge. One hand grips a revolver beneath the lace trim of the sheets. Her night-bound eyes flutter.

Duma arrives. A chamber opens.

Pale light creeps over the ocean’s moaning verge. Kip stands on the beach, her ankles buried in spotted locusts. Thick bands of yellow nymphs and boat-shaped males with short horns swarm the shoreline like warriors on attack.

The waves advance. Battalions of quickened snakes shine the surface water. Above the grey sea, Kip sees a dark figure leaking streaks. It’s him. The firehawk.

He flies, full and fast, prowling the hump-backed crests. With a chest full of orange flames, the firehawk hooks his charred wings on a nest of stars. In a hot fit of pride, he races toward her.

A scream jams in her throat.

He hovers above her face, spewing ash, showing off one golden claw. He thinks himself full of beauty. What a plumage he has, all full of bone. The muscles on his neck bulge, lumpy veins galloping with blood. Greedy, his teeth plunge out. The beast lets go of his fire-tongue. From the open mouth, Kip hears his tumultuous heart.

He thinks himself a king.

Black snakes crisscross over Kip’s chest like a cage and propel her into the deepest waves pulsing with ice chunks. She twists and screams, but the high rollers crash over her, filling her mouth with foam. The firehawk soars in triumph. With his hairy ropes, he reels her out to sea like a thrashing trout. Blue arrows, boiling with fierce light, rip open the sky as she fights to keep her head above the freezing water.

A giant black-blue serpent swings up from the inky waves. It spreads its hood, expands its ribs to expose devouring jaws.

Kip bolted awake.

Shards of ice crashed the floor. She jumped out of the sheets before a chunk hit her. The black-blue serpent shot up from the mattress. His marble eyes darted just as he lunged at her like a sword.

Stunned, shaking, unable to draw a breath, she searched for the revolver under her pillow. Hurry! With slippery hands, her body dripping as if the sea were leaking from her flesh, her feet sliding on the wet floor, she found the gun. Kip tightened her grip on the metal, narrowed her vision into a pinpoint, and with razor-keen aim, she pulled the trigger. The serpent jerked and hit the floor, spurting filmy white liquid in all directions. Again, she pulled trigger, this time releasing a scream that knocked her back against the wall. She sucked in a breath, fists still clenched. Angel Uriel blew a clean breeze through the open window. Heart calming, refreshed, she rolled her head against the firm plaster wall. Steady. Awake. Safe in Abasteron House. Was it Tuesday? Wednesday?

On the floor, the serpent twitched with spasms. There was no time to lose. She reached into the night table drawer and removed a hatchet. For leverage, she separated her feet, gripped the handle with both hands, raised her arms, and slammed down the hatchet.

What a cruel chop. The head flipped and landed at her feet. Another chop and she separated the tail. Again the hatchet came down. Methodically, Kip joined the tail at the serpent’s head, positioned the middle sections at both ends. It shook violently. With a close of its gleaming fangs, the serpent convulsed and finally lay dead.

Battle won. She gathered sheets soaked with seawater, sand, and slime and dumped the dead snake inside the bundle, then tied it with double knots. The eyelet hem of her nightgown hung heavy. She wrung it out, grabbed the sack, and headed outside.

The Atlantic rolled forth; it reminded her of rhythmic wave trains. How everlasting the waves were, their sine wave patterns a muscular inexhaustible power. Perhaps only God was mightier.

She dragged the sack through the darkness to the far sand dunes and didn’t stop until she reached a wide expanse dotted with sea grass. With claw-like fingers, she dug a deep pit. Sudden winds blew her dark hair into her mouth—the strands tangled between her teeth. Salt stung her tongue.

With a groan, she heaved the sack into the pit. How many times had she buried the serpents? For how many weeks, these wretched dreams, night after night. Months now. Quickly she covered the hole with sand and sat back on her haunches. With a huff, she patted the sand into a hard surface and walked away. No, she wouldn’t look back. What for? The dream was dead and buried now. Until she dreamed again.

Kip walked home along the shore, sea spray on her cheeks. Full morning broke. Sun ablaze, gulls flapped at the chin of sky. Abasteron House appeared small with its evergreen shutters and peaked roof against the big sky. Was that a white crane soaring over the roof? Maybe she’d pick some fresh sea lavender and fill Abasteron House with shades of plum and violet. And she’d let the soft aromas act as a balm for her thoughts.

Kip climbed the hills to the beach path that lead to the house. The flagstones felt warm against the soles of her feet. At the porch, each step gave her pause. That white screen door stood ajar over a foot wide and hung perfectly still. But the hinges squealed as if the wind were batting the door back and forth. Her own shadow shifted. She watched it slip inside the doorway, yet she hadn’t move a single finger. Who’s there? She licked her thirsty lips, made a step back. Then another step. She grabbed the porch rail, a bad case of the shakes overwhelming her. Tears mounted. She swallowed them back.

Kip whipped herself around to face the sea. Her eyes wandered the soothing blues and greens. She swept her vision across the shoreline. Almost immediately, she spotted the sailor. Good Morning! Her voice cracked. She threw a wave even though he hadn’t seen or heard her greeting. Certain she was fully awake now, Kip saw this sailor as her guarantee she was back in the concrete world. Every morning, rain or shine, the man trotted the beach in his navy shorts and tee-shirt. That scoop of white sailor cap tilted perfectly to the right on his head. Some mornings he’d see Kip in the garden and give her a wave as he passed. What a smile. But not today. Today he was trotting up island, east to west, head down.

Oddly, the sky piled high with sudden clouds. Sailboats tossed on the horizon like twisted handkerchiefs. Even the beach seemed to retreat in the face of that ferocious surf heaving up sand and shells and driving the seabirds into fearful circles.

The shimmer off the sea swelled up like an old claw, long and suddenly greyed. Her tears surfaced but did not fall. Kip entered the garden and filled her arms with sea lavender.

Seven thunders rolled up from the sea, but she did not hear them.

Book I

Chapter ONE

I will pour out my spirit on all flesh;

your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,

your old men shall dream dreams,

and your young men shall see visions.

—Book of Joel 2:28

Chicago

Father Raymond Kera glanced around the bar with men cheering a baseball game on the television. He focused on the priest, Garcia, sitting opposite him in the darkened booth, their gin glasses brimmed with ice and thin lemon slices. Raymond cleared his throat and said the words he had never spoken aloud.

‘The road to hell is paved with the skulls of priests.’

The words twisted on his tongue. The old quote had hammered him for years. He didn’t even like reading the words in books. Raymond downed a third of the gin in one gulp. The slick felt good slipping over his tongue. "I read that there’s been a lot of debate that the word skulls was misread for the term souls."

Garcia gave him a shrug.

Some authorities claimed that St. John Chrysostom never even wrote it. Maybe the quote is faulty. Raymond waited for his friend’s response, and seeing none, he sloshed in another mouthful of gin. So? You’ve got nothing to say about this?

I’d say, don’t take it so literally, faulty or not, Garcia said in his smooth accent. Everybody sins, even priests. Let it go. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?

Let it go? Raymond wished he could be so casual. Not entirely. There’s something else. Who named you Garcia the Prophet?

I’m no prophet.

That’s not how I hear it. Who proclaimed you a prophet?

Genuine prophets are not proclaimed. They just are. And humble as heaven too. They feel their souls right beneath their skin. It’s like a living presence always upon you. Except, it moves first, before you can even think. Scary as all hell. Nobody wants to be a prophet. I certainly don’t.

You get revelations of impending events?

Never.

You can see ahead though, can’t you?

Not really.

You see within?

Garcia blinked, added a smirk. Sometimes. Take off your clerical collar.

Raymond unsnapped the white circle around his neck, tossed it on the table. Why don’t I ever see you wearing one of these?

Because it’s a noose.

Raymond bit the inside of his cheek. Garcia, he glanced to the television. Cubs were down by three runs. Things are worse.

Garcia slugged his gin. Yeah? That old bitch still complaining about you?

She is, but that’s not the worse part. My review was a complete meltdown.

Again? Not that crap about your lacking drive, was it?

That and my dull homilies. You have no skills to inspire, Father Kera, he said proud of his acid imitation of Monsignor. You have a reedy voice. You misrepresent the gospels. He swallowed hard. I’m failing, Garcia.

Failing? You’ve got big fucking rocks in your head, man. Listen, what has all your obedience brought you? What has your precious chastity accomplished? Aren’t you the guy who’s dazzled every chick this side of Chicago? Garcia made a dirty laugh. Listen to me, Fireball Kera, what you need is some good healthy fucking.

The day I was ordained, I vowed not to dazzle anybody.

Not even Layla? What a woman you tossed away. Jesus, Kera, did you really expect to scour out your sex drive just because you became a priest?

Maybe he did. Raymond leaned in and whispered. It’s more than that. There’s no voice. No touch. Nothing of His presence anymore.

Be still. It’ll pass. Garcia sucked an ice cube.

It’s not passing. I wake up at four a.m., sweaty, my heart pounding, my legs shaking. He succumbed to the gin that loosened him up. In the corner of my room I see hooked shadows.

Garcia shook his head. It’s just fear, man. Abandonment, death, damnation—who doesn’t have fears?

This shadow, it has twisted hair, claws, moldy breath.

Garcia’s face dropped.

I turn on the lights. Open my Bible. I might as well be reading the newspaper for all the comfort it brings.

Raymondo, you’ve got to get a grip, man.

I cannot pray, he whispered fiercely. All I have are empty repetitions.

I’m sorry. I had no idea it was this … dark for you. I knew you felt, well, I knew you were in a struggle but, for Christ’s sake, we all struggle. How long has this been happening?

Raymond couldn’t admit to Garcia that he’d had these visions since childhood. What a stupid scared little kid he was—repeatedly waking up in the middle of the night, terrified something evil occupied his room. When he became a priest, the images stopped. Now they’d returned. Garcia, have you ever felt anything like this?

Garcia shook his head.

Never?

Honestly, no.

Garcia said it with such an apologetic face; it had to be true. Not even a fleeting moment of doubt or abandonment in all your fifteen years of service? Was your calling so certain?

Garcia huffed. My calling? And God created priests, he said in a dramatic voice. Callings are self-important bullshit. All that surrender crap. No, I was never called.

Then why become a priest?

Garcia chewed a lemon slice dripping with gin. I was asked.

What do you mean, asked?

Garcia had big bulging black eyes that gave him a starved little-boy-look. Most of the time, people couldn’t resist this forty-year-old man with hair buzzed down to the scalp and a scruffy beard, barely five-foot-six, and his powerful smile.

A roar broke from the bar. Cubs scored a grand slam. Look at that, Garcia said.

Come on, tell me. Who asked—

Garcia! A young girl ran into the bar with her arms waving.

Garcia sucked in his breath with surprise, then frowned. What are you doing here?

She ignored him and put her hand out to Raymond. Chop Suey Sammie. I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.

Raymond shook her hand. She looked about ten years old, a real cutie, with tiny almond eyes and the longest pigtails in the world, right down to her hips. My pleasure. Father Raymond Kera, St. John’s Parish. Her smile broke open, and she pumped his hand with amazing vigor. Chop Suey Sammie sat down next to him in the booth. It was silly, but he felt entirely flattered.

What do you think you’re doing, Sammie? Garcia said none too gently. This is a bar full of rowdy men. You can’t stay here. Go home. And how did you know I was here?

Nico said you hang here.

Nico? Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?

"Nico thinks you’re a muthafucka."

Don’t use that word. Yeah, I know what Nico thinks.

She crinkled up her nose. You think I should kick him in the nuts for saying that?

Cringing, Raymond hid a laugh.

I think you should go home, Garcia said.

Garcia, I came to invite you. She tossed him a crumpled up yellow ball of paper.

Amused, he caught it, opened the paper ball and read it. Variety show at your school? You in it?

Sammie jumped up. Want a sneak peek? She cleared her throat, put both hands on her hips and began singing Has Anybody Seen My Gal. She animated every lyric with winks and giggles, curled up her shoulders, hugging herself with coo-chi, coo-chi, coo-chi-coo—which were not the actual lyrics of could she woo.

Garcia burst out laughing. Raymond couldn’t resist either.

Sammie spun around, tapped her toes, threw kisses dramatically, and bowed on the last high note. Her little mistake couldn’t have been more charming. The guys in the next booth applauded. She hammed it up with another bow, than balled her fists up at her face and nearly screamed with excitement. They’re going to give me a microphone!

De verdad! Garcia laughed.

You’ll come next Tuesday?

I wouldn’t miss it. Now go home, Sammie. Don’t you have homework to do?

Dios Mio! Si, she imitated him and scooted out.

Where’d you find Chop Suey Sammie? Raymond asked.

She’s my little sugar cake from heaven. Found her on the street. Eleven years old and she’s carrying a Ninja blade and doing lookout runs for Nico. Her mother’s a cokehead and the boyfriend is in racketeering. I got Sammie into Child Services and a foster home. But she’ll never give up her street name. That little fucker, Nico, won’t leave her alone. He promised her when she grows breasts, he’ll teach her to do tricks.

Sounds like you better get Nico arrested fast.

Did that. D.A. kicked the case. Insufficient evidence.

You’re working with the Narcotics Task force officially now?

Garcia cupped his hand over his mouth. Confidential Informant. We think Nico’s getting into black ice from Mexico. He’s barely eighteen and building himself quite a little empire. Stupid little shit watches gangster movies all day. Thinks he’s some kind of Al Pacino prince of power or something. But next time we’ll nail him, with the goods.

What’s black ice?

Cocaine, heroin, PCP, all jazzed up. He gets Sammie started on that crap, I’ll kill him.

Raymond admired Garcia’s tough-love ministry on the southwest side. Garcia was famous for his hip-hop Liturgies in Odinn Park. Multitudes of the faithful streamed in—street disciples, he liked to call them. Raymond attended one time and couldn’t get over the kids’ enthusiasm to beat boxes and rap to Psalm Twenty-Three. In the battle of saving souls among Chicago’s teen gangs, Garcia fought like a lion. All were welcome to his street altars. Even Nico. Especially Nico, Garcia would say. Every day Garcia’s flock grew larger. And he never even wore a cross over his black tee-shirts and blue jeans.

Save me from the sin of envy, Lord. Raymond tried again. So, why do they call you Garcia the Prophet? What did you do to earn that title?

Garcia toyed with his gin glass. It’s just an expression.

Who started it?

Bishop Cage. He gets obsessive sometimes and goes overboard.

And was it Cage who asked you to be a priest?

Garcia took a long slug of his gin. Those big eyes hit the television screen. We’ve got to go to a live game some time.

So it wasn’t Cage? Who then?

Doesn’t matter.

Yeah, it does.

Garcia looked around the bar for a second.

Come on, Garcia, my soul’s on the floor here. Who asked you to become a priest?

It’s not what you think, man.

Good then. Tell me something I don’t know.

He crunched an ice cube. It happened at Guardalavaca Beach.

Raymond sat deeper into the cushions, signaled the waiter for another round, and focused on the man’s blackball eyes, already sparkling.

I got up at dawn, snuck out, and ran the shore. The sea was so clear, just like turquoise. Palm trees bending with the wind and the Sierra Maestra Mountains behind me. Someday, Raymondo, you’ve got to see my Cuba. I stopped to watch the waves. I swear if all the stars had fallen during the night, every single one was shimmering on the surface of the sea that morning. Far out, a man was swimming. His strokes were in perfect rhythm. I watched him for five minutes. What precision.

Raymond filtered out the noises from the bar and finished off his gin.

He was the fastest swimmer I ever saw. Kicking up like a motorboat. In seconds he was up on the sand, walking toward me. What a body. Tall, shoulders as wide as a wooden beam and muscles thick like ropes on his neck. He said to me, ‘Have you ever seen the sea so full?’ I couldn’t even answer, I was so taken with him. Big face, cheekbones like hammerheads. Skin tanned gold. And his eyes, deep-set and bluer than the sky. ‘Have you seen the coral reefs on the east end? The fish there are magnificent. Come. Do you want to swim with the fishes?’ he said.

Swim with the fishes? Doesn’t that mean you’re dead?

Garcia shrugged. Does it?

Maybe only in the movies. So, what did you do?

We dove in. I followed him out. He sliced through the waves like an athlete. I had a hell of a time keeping up. The ‘east end’ he said, but I didn’t have a clue how far out that was. So, I just kept swimming after him. Then all of a sudden, he grabbed me. I didn’t even have time to take a breath. With one arm he dragged me straight down.

Jesus, Raymond said.

"I fought like hell. Tried to surface, but he had me so tight with those big hands. I was running out of air fast. My chest started to collapse. Kind of a