A/N: Well, here it is. For better or worse, this is the final chapter. I hope all you readers out there feel it was worth your time.
The brief dialog between Abe and Nuala is taken from the novelization of The Golden Army. The poem is A Broken Appointment by Thomas Hardy, which I feel conveys its sense of unrequited love with tear-jerking success. And once again, the song lyrics are from Suzanne by Leonard Cohen.
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Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.
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Time passes without the arrival of any new letters. Abe has all but given up. He conceals his sadness by diving into his work. Outwardly he seems unchanged, but his friends can tell the difference. It is why, despite the newness of their romance, Liz and Hellboy make an effort to spend time with him. Abe is grateful for the kindness, but it simply isn't the same. He misses Zaida's words, written in her sensible hand. Misses learning of her triumphs and tragedies, and all the mundane details that lie in between. Again and again his thoughts return to her last letter and to the object it came with, the memory it contained. He knows Zaida has found someone else to invest her emotions in. Selfishly, part of him hopes it will not last, while the rest knows she deserves some happiness in her life. I'm happy for her, he tries to convince himself. Sometimes he almost believes it is so.
Then one day Abe meets a princess.
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Through gentle persistence, Anthony persuades me to move in with him. We have already slept together, he reasons, so living together is the next logical step. I tell him again that I cannot stay forever. He says he understands, but I know he hopes to change my mind on this.
I sit at the desk in his modest study while he is at work. Among the many hobbies for which others are willing to pay him for, Anthony is a teacher of nineteenth century English literature. His walls are lined with bookshelves filled with classic works by authors long dead, each volume filled with clear plastic braille pages laid over the ordinary printed text. It reminds me of Abe's library. I am trying to write to him, but the words do not come. The area around the wastebasket is littered with the crumpled remains of my earlier failures. What do I say? The pen moves across the stationery Anthony has bought for me.
I thought I was in love. I don't know when I realized the emotion wasn't my own, but I understand now. You are the one who is in love. Who is this woman who's stolen your heart? Does she realize how lucky she is?
I bite my lip in thought, tap the pen against the page, leaving tiny black specks against the pristine white. My other hand which holds the paper still is spread to reveal the delicate webbing between my fingers. I scrawl the next words without thought: I miss you. The page crumples and adds to the growing mess on the floor. I make a mental note to clean it all up before Anthony returns. I set the pen down, run my webbed fingers through my hair. I've let it grow these last few months. For years I kept my hair close-cropped to conceal my gender. I told myself it was for safety; that if someone ever found out about my gift, they would say it was a scarred man rather than a woman. Now I can admit the true reason; people look at a scarred man with marginally less revulsion than they do a scarred woman. A sad double-standard in what so many believe is an enlightened society. I think it's time to drop this minor subterfuge. When I was young I would weave my hair into braids that hung down in long, thin strands. Perhaps I will do this again.
I hear the front door open and hasten to clean up the discarded pages. I step out to the living room in time to see Anthony release Sam from his harness. The faithful Lab trots away to curl up in his doggy bed.
"Hey," Anthony grins, holding up a paper sack, "Got us some Chinese."
I smile, even though he cannot see it, and accept the food.
Later as we lie in bed, Anthony traces my features with his gentle fingers. "What's wrong?" Those hands of his are so deft at reading my moods.
"Nothing important. Just...homesick." I am surprised at my choice of the word. Homesick? But not for the island of my distant youth. I am not yet ready to consider my return there.
"Why don't you tell me about home?"
I lick my lips. It is dark in the bedroom; Anthony is just a silhouette beside me. I think of the confessionals Catholics use, how much easier it is to tell all to someone when you cannot see their face. Why is this?
"It's the people I miss, really."
"Like who?"
"Well," I hesitate, "There's one guy everybody calls Red."
"Is he Irish?" I can hear the grin in Anthony's voice.
I laugh. "I doubt it. He's tall and very, very muscular. Has a laid-back attitude towards life, loves old movies and cartoons, cold beer, and cats. He has lots of cats."
Anthony chuckles. "Sounds like quite a character. Who else?"
I tell him about Liz, Manning, and several other agents I'd met during my brief stay at the Bureau, though I do not tell him that they are all federal agents working for a secret agency that protects the world from mythical creatures. Though I cannot see his face, I know Anthony is listening to my every word with rapt attention. I can't remember the last time someone truly listened to me.
Yes you can, an angry voice whispers in the back of my mind followed by a memory of blue scales and large, dark eyes.
"Anyone else you haven't told me about yet?"
I do not want to say it. "Abe."
He must have heard something in my voice. His tone is more sober when he next speaks. "Tell me about him."
I turn away from his shadow. "I don't want to."
Silence stretches between us. The mattress shifts beneath me as Anthony rolls to his side, his back to me. I know he isn't angry, rather my mentioning of Abe has brought him a touch of sadness. It only makes the guilt that rises in me all the more painful.
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His first romance can be measured in mere hours. Within the span of that time, the peaceful moments few and far between, Abe discovers the joys of love and the tragedy of loss. He cradles the dying woman in his arms, her silken gown stained with amber blood. "I never had the chance to tell you...how I felt. I never had the chance..." But he knows that is a lie. Even in the brief time they knew each other, Abe had plenty of chances. It was fear that held him back. And now it is too late.
The princes smiles, lifts her hand. Even in her weakened state she moves with ethereal grace. "Give me your hand."
Without hesitation he rests his gloved palm against hers. Thoughts and emotions, memories and sensations, pass between the fish-man and the elf. It is then that each learns how the other feels, and Abe discovers Nuala's emotions mirror his own. The princess smiles in sorrowful regret. "It is beautiful."
"It's perfect," Abe agrees. He does not listen to Prince Nuada's final words; it is because of him that Nuala has done this to herself, sacrificed her life to save humanity from her twin's destructive vengeance. Abe cannot help but think that humanity is undeserving of such a selfless act. He watches in growing despair as Nuala closes her beautiful eyes for the last time and her body transforms, an elegant statue that was once a vibrant woman. Tears that Abe once thought himself incapable of shedding fall from his large eyes and patter against the statue's cheeks. He hears a crash as Nuada's corpse topples and shatters against the hard floor, but gives no reaction.
"Abe..." Liz's voice quavers in sorrow. Hellboy looks away, unable to offer solace to his friend.
Abe bends down to plant a kiss against his love's cold lips, an act he hadn't the courage to do when she lived. He will regret this for the rest of his life. He rises to his feet, descends the narrow steps to his friends' level. For one long moment they look at each other in silence. Then Abe whispers, his throat too tight with despair to speak aloud, "I can't do this anymore." He hangs his head and begins to weep. Liz, sobbing, hurries to embrace him. After a moment of uncertainty, Hellboy moves to lay his flesh-and-blood hand on the fish-man's trembling shoulder. Johan hangs back, his friendship with this odd trio still too new to offer his own comfort.
When Abe has no more tears to shed, the four of them leave the dead underground city to tell Manning that they are leaving the Bureau. They are through with the BPRD and its thankless work. They have risked their lives again and again for the safety of an ungrateful world, suffered the loss of friends and family. They've done enough. It is time for them to start living for themselves, though for Abe it is a decision made too late.
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"Julia...Julia..." A distant voice and a firm hand shakes me awake.
"What?" I sniff. It is early morning; pale sunlight filters through the curtains, providing just enough illumination to see Anthony's concern.
"You were crying in your sleep." He touches my face and I notice the wetness on my cheeks. The memory of my dream resurfaces, and with it the sorrow. I bury my face against Anthony's shoulder and cry. He strokes my hair and murmurs gentle words. Whatever questions he surely has he keeps to himself. One of his many kindnesses. It makes what I know must happen all the more painful; I am going to leave him.
Guilt makes me hold off the inevitable confrontation for most of the day. Only when Anthony returns from work do I muster the courage to tell him the truth. He enters the apartment in silence, as if he already knows. Maybe he does; one of the things that drew me to him in the first place was his perceptiveness. I wait for him to unharness Sam, then pat the sofa cushion beside me. "Could you sit with me, please? There's something I have to tell you."
Anthony quietly seats himself, feels around until he grasps my hand. "What's wrong?"
I lick my lips. "You remember I told you I couldn't stay forever?"
The slightest slump in his shoulders, a curve to his brow. "You're leaving."
"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you." I wince at the triteness of my words.
He pulls his hand away from mine, turns to face straight ahead so that I now look upon his profile. I am struck once again by how strikingly handsome he is. "Y'know," he sighs, "I thought if I could prove how much I care, you might just change your mind and stay with me."
"I'm sorry," I repeat the inadequate phrase.
Anthony shakes his head. "I know you have your reasons, though I'll be damned if I know what they are. You certainly have your share of secrets. Be lying if I said I wasn't curious." He turns his sightless eyes towards me. "But I never asked, because I respected your boundaries."
"Are you asking now?" I say quietly.
A short, bitter chuckle. "Would you answer if I did?"
For you... I remain silent, knowing he will misinterpret.
"Thought so," he sighs.
My modest belongings are already packed in my duffel bag. It lies beside the sofa in a spot where Anthony's feet seldom tread. All I have to do is reach down. Instead I reach for him. He tries to lean away from my touch, but I am gently persistent. "There's something else," I tell him, "Something I need to do before I go."
There is suspicion and hurt in his expression. "What?"
I cup his face in my scarred, webbed hands, pull his face towards mine. Anthony resists at first, then his hands encircle my waist and he leans towards me with a mournful groan. Our lips meet in our first and only kiss.
Of all the wounds I've healed throughout the long years, neural damage terrifies me the most. What if I don't recover, or worse, wake up with permanent brain damage? Still, I do not hesitate to heal those who need it, regardless of the nature of their wounds. So far, I have always recovered.
I expect the darkness which floods in. What I do not expect is the discovery that Anthony's tumor has recurred, a mere cluster of abnormal cells no bigger than the head of a pin. Anthony has been unaware of this frightening development, and now he never has to know.
"Oh, God," I hear him gasp as my lethargy sets in, "Oh, sweet Jesus! Julia! I can see!"
I smile weakly. "I know." My body slumps against the sofa's back, head and eyelids drooping. Strong hands grasp my shoulders.
"Julia?" Fear and concern, but no disgust in his voice. Even with his sight restored, he does not recoil from me. I am more relieved by this than I expected to be. "Julia, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," I mumble, too exhausted to raise my voice.
"I-I think I should call an ambulance—"
"No," I slur, "Jus' let me sleep." My sightless eyes close as healing sleep overtakes me. I am dimly aware of the sensation of being lifted, carried from the room, and laid gently upon the bed I share with Anthony. Then there is only nothingness.
When I wake hours later, I am relieved to find my sight restored, at least to my unscarred eye. Anthony is seated in a chair beside the bed reading from one of his books, the plastic braille page pushed aside so that he can view the ordinary print. His head jerks up when I stretch. "You're awake."
I smile, push myself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Taking advantage of your eyes, I see." My mouth quirks at the unintentional pun.
Anthony slides a bookmark between the pages and closes the book with undue care. He does not meet my eyes. "How long will it last?"
"Forever."
Now he does look at me, and I can see the anger. "You could've cured me the whole time."
It is not a question, but I reply all the same. "Yes."
"Why didn't you?"
I touch my face. "Selfishness."
His expression softens. He reaches out, touches my scarred cheek. "Thank you."
I nod, then rise on slightly shaky legs and step through the bedroom door. Anthony does not follow. I find my duffel bag where I left it, pick it up, sling it over my shoulder. Sam watches from his doggy bed in the corner. I pet him one last time, then leave the apartment without a backward glance. It is easier than I thought it would be.
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Hellboy finds himself once again locked in deadly combat. Sweat drips from his mighty brow, stinging flinty yellow eyes that squint in concentration. The tip of his long tail twitches in anticipation. The fingers of his stone hand wrap around his foe in an unbreakable grip while his flesh hand raises his weapon which glints in the light. With infinite care he inserts the head of the screwdriver into the bolt and gives it a turn.
From the relative safety of the doorway, Liz Sherman watches the giant red man complete his task, the assembly instructions clutched in her hands. Hellboy straightens with a satisfied grunt. "Finished!" He steps back to view his handiwork, absently throwing a meaty arm around the petite woman's shoulders. "Whadda y'think?"
Liz tilts her head, a slight frown creasing her brow. She searches for a diplomatic way of phrasing her next sentence. "Um…kinda crooked, isn't it?"
The hopeful look on her boyfriend's face slides off like a badly applied toupee. "Crooked?"
"Just a little," she hastens to clarify, though in truth the crib looks like it's designed to go in the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
The distinctive tectonic sound of Hellboy's teeth grinding fills the incomplete nursery. "I followed those damned instructions to the last stupid letter…" Though, of course, like all assembly instructions, they read as if they've been translated from English to Chinese to Spanish to Japanese to English and therefore make less sense than a metal band on acid and a lot less fun to listen to.
Liz grimaces in sympathy. "Maybe we should just order one that's already put together—"
"No way!" Hellboy snaps, "I've fought hellhounds and trolls and giant slimy gods with unpronounceable names! I've talked to reanimated corpses and beat an army of invincible robots! I've seen weird shit that'd make Schwarzenegger cry like a little girl and hide under his bed! And I'm gonna put this crib together myself, dammit!"
Liz sighs, unfazed by the demon's awesome fit of temper. "Fine, just don't knock down any walls if you lose it." She hands him the instructions and walks away. Already she can hear him muttering as he attempts to decipher the incomprehensible instructions. Liz smiles in amusement. She isn't even showing yet and the big red ape is already scrambling frantically to get everything ready as if the kids might pop out at any moment. It's gotten to the point that she actually has to hide the baby catalogs lest he make another impulsive purchase. Honestly, how many teething rings do a pair of twins really need? Then again, considering their interesting parentage, perhaps Hellboy is right in thinking they can't be too prepared.
The young pyrokinetic wanders through the still-unfamiliar house to the huge bay window overlooking the lake. Watching the water ripple in the breeze always relaxes her. To her left, around the inlet's gradual curve, she sees Abe's smaller house with its disproportionately large pier leading straight from the backdoor to the water. If she squints she can probably see the fish-man's blurred silhouette in the water. Abe spends a lot of time in the water lately; more than he ever did when they were all still part of the Bureau. Liz sometimes wonders why he even bothers with a house. But then, he does need someplace to keep all his books.
"Hey, Red," she calls over her shoulder, "Wanna ask Abe over for dinner tonight?"
"Yeah, sounds great," comes the demon's reply in a tone that lets the woman know he isn't even listening; too absorbed in his task. Liz rolls her eyes, then stares out at the water again. She's worried about Abe. Ever since Princess Nuala died the fish-man has put more and more distance between himself and the rest of the world. Sometimes days pass before Liz and Hellboy hear from him, and they live only a few hundred yards away! Yet even when they manage to drag their friend out of his self-imposed exile he seems only half there, just a sad echo of the person they once knew. Liz misses Abe's droll humor, his boundless patience with the often trying Hellboy, his willingness to listen to Liz's troubles, no matter how trivial. Liz wishes she knew how to help her friend, but Abe seems unwilling to ask for or accept any help from her or Hellboy. The one time she came out and asked the fish-man what he needed, he'd simply replied, "To be left alone."
Liz turns away from the view of the lake, no longer content to watch the waves.
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I decide to spent the night in a hotel; I still have some money left from my departure from the BPRD (God bless tax-free government hush money). It is while I unpack my stationery that I find Anthony's parting gift; three hundred dollars in twenties, the maximum withdrawal allowed for his ATM card. The money is folded inside a piece of paper. When I unfold it I discover it is a page torn from one of his books of poetry. I read the printed words:
You did not come,
And marching Time drew on and wore me numb.—
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, a the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.
You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
—I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me?
The tears I did not feel the need to shed on my leaving come to me now. I let myself fall onto the room's narrow bed and sob into the stale-smelling pillow.
Later, when my tears are spent, I sit at the little table to compose two letters. The first I write to Anthony, telling him all the things I didn't have the courage to say to his face. It is as much a confession as an attempt to ease his sorrow. I can only hope it doesn't backfire and make him feel worse. I do not think it will, but I can never be sure. I know I'll never see him again to find out.
The second letter is far more difficult. I crumple nearly a dozen pages before I manage to organize my thoughts. I haven't written to him in so long. I am ashamed by this lapse, but I do not let myself shrink from this task now. Abe needs me now more than ever. I can feel this through our faint connection. Where there was startling new love and fearful joy, there is now overwhelming despair. My friend has suffered a tragedy, and my inability to comfort him breaks my heart. The pen scratches across the clean white paper, conveying as much empathy and compassion as I can manage through such an inadequate medium as words. Still, I know they are not enough. I pick up the folded poem. I hold it in my hands, imagine that my thoughts and feelings seep into the page. Then I fold it with the letter, put it in the envelope, and address it as always. I will mail both letters tomorrow after I check out.
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Phil has been a mail carrier for the better part of twenty years. He cannot remember the last time he delivered this far out on his route. He's heard the rumors about the two lakeside cabins' new residents, but doesn't put any stock in them. Last month some loony swore up and down he saw a Loch Ness type monster raise its snaky head out of the lake and nobody took him seriously. Still, as Phil pulled into the obviously neglected driveway, he can't help but glance around in case he might catch a glimpse of the red giant or the blue fish-man. Phil shakes his head and snorts at his own foolishness. He climbs the wooden steps onto the smaller cabin's wraparound porch and slides the single envelope through the mail slot. His task completed, the mail carrier turns and heads back to his vehicle. Along the way, his ears catch a faint splash behind him, but he pays it no mind. Just some hungry fish going after a bug, he tells himself.
Abe peers around the corner of the house to watch the delivery van trundle away. He, Hellboy, and Liz seldom see anyone out here aside from the guy who delivers their groceries once a week. It's the main reason they all settled here. Not even the most tenacious reporters have made an appearance, thanks to the Bureau's efforts to ensure its former agents' privacy. Abe knows this peace cannot last forever, though he did not expect it to end so soon and in such an anticlimactic manner. Puzzled, he grabs the towel he left on the bench beside the sliding glass door and dries off the excess moisture. It is not his favorite sensation, drying off, but it is less of a hassle than mopping up the puddles on his floor—a chore he never suffered while in the BPRD where nearly a dozen individuals of lower rank were more or less at his beck and call. Once he no longer drips, Abe enters the modestly furnished cabin and heads for the front door where he finds the letter lying beneath the never-before-used mail slot. He feels a tingle of anticipation as he reaches for the envelope. Can it be? After all this time? He turns it face up, gasps in a mixture of relief and anxiety when he sees the familiar neat handwriting: Abraham Sapien, c/o The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense... Even in his shock, Abe chuckles at the irony; a federally funded agency that doesn't officially exist, yet still has its own mailing address. At the bottom of the envelope in Manning's chicken-scratch are the words Forward To and Abe's current address. He checks the postmark; less than a week old.
Why now, after so long? For a moment he is tempted to shred the letter without even reading it, but curiosity and—yes, loneliness—prompts him to do otherwise. He carries the envelope outside, sits on the edge of the pier with his long legs dangling into the sun-warmed water, and tears it open. The paper is different from the kind she used in her other correspondence, a higher quality white stationery with a pale green border. Yet her handwriting remains unchanged. There is a second page, smaller, which he sets aside for later. His eyes are drawn to Zaida's words.
I had a strange dream last night. I stood in a forest of trees that were so tall I couldn't see their tops. Leaves as big as my hand and the color of ashes fell from the unseen boughs like confetti. When I walked my footsteps made a quiet shush-shush sound. I felt as if I was in a giant temple, that making even the slightest noise would violate its sacredness. Then I turned a corner and found a man kneeling by a clear pool. He was crying. I asked him why he was so sad. Instead of answering, he reached into the pool and lifted out the most beautiful statue I've ever seen, like something carved from clouded amber. "It is beautiful," the man sobbed, "It's perfect." And then he looked at me and I saw that he had your eyes. It made my loneliness so unbearable I woke in tears.
Where are you now, Abe? When I watched the news this afternoon it said that Hellboy left the Bureau along with some of his fellow agents. Were you one of them? The idea frightens me, because you might not get my letters anymore. Isn't that silly? All the times I've written to you and you couldn't answer because I keep moving, and now that you're the one who's no longer staying in one place, I feel close to panic. Knowing you were there, imagining you reading my letters, has been the only stability in my life, as if at any time I could drop it all and come rushing back to you. Are you alright? I've always been too afraid to ask, even though I know you can't answer. But I need to ask now, because somewhere inside me I can feel the answer. You're not alright. Something's happened. I wish I could be there to take your pain away, even if it means just holding your hand. But all I have are these words. I'm sorry, Abe. I'm so sorry I haven't written to you all this time. Sorry for the loss I know you've suffered. I know you feel more alone right now than you ever have in your life, but you're not alone. I carry you with me in my thoughts, in the webbed hands I am looking at as I write these words, and in my heart. Just as I know you carry me in yours. Remember that, Abe. No matter how wide the space between us, we will always be connected.
Abe folds the letter carefully, tucks it back into its envelope, then picks up the smaller page to read its contents. It is not the poem that moves him, but the sensations he absorbs from the paper it is written upon. Like all the small tokens Zaida sent, Abe relives a moment in her life; waking from her sorrowful dream, her farewell kiss to Anthony and subsequent departure, her desire for forgiveness for neglecting their friendship. Her unspoken, unwritten words: I miss you. Tears spill from Abe's large eyes. He used to wonder whether or not he could weep, and now it seems he cannot stop. But this time the sadness holds a far less bitter edge. He knows he does not carry this burden alone.
Distant shouts draw his attention to the larger house across the little inlet. Despite his tears, Abe smiles. He slips over the side of the pier, swims across the calm waters towards the neighboring house. He walks ashore, climbs the steps to the back deck, and knocks politely on the door.
"What!" the massive bellow rattles the windows. The door jerks open and a massive red form blots the light from within. "Oh," Hellboy blinks, startled by this unexpected arrival. He visibly struggles for a less threatening tone, "Hey, Blue."
"Trouble?"
The demon waves his stone hand dismissively. "Nah! Just picking out baby names. Y'know how it is."
Abe, who hasn't a clue how such things are, nods. "So…decide on anything?"
"Well, we both decided on at least one boy name. Trevor."
The fish-man smiles, unsurprised by the choice of Professor Broom's name. "But what if you have two boys?" They are expecting twins, after all.
Hellboy grimaces. "Well—"
"We are not naming our son Champ!" comes a yell from inside the house.
Hellboy turns and booms over his shoulder, "I already said alright!" He turns back to his quietly amused friend, rolls his yellow eyes. "Women."
"Er, perhaps I can help?"
The demon shrugs one massive shoulder, concealing his elation that his friend finally seems to be coming out of his shell. "Sure. Why not? Could always use a referee. C'mon in."
After drying off with a towel Red brings him, Abe seats himself on the couch beside Liz whose belly is already beginning to thicken. Unlike Hellboy, she does not hide her joy in seeing their friend. Beaming, she hands him a book aptly titled Baby Names. "I was thinking something like Brooke if one of them's a girl."
"Great," Hellboy smirks, "That way if she talks too much everybody can call her 'Babbling Brooke.'"
"Oh, c'mon! You didn't like Abigail. You didn't like Madeline—"
"I'm not naming my kid after an advice columnist and a cheesy little French schoolgirl—"
While they argue, Abe idly pages through the thick book. Lola, Miriam, Nadine… He flips through until he reaches the Z's. It doesn't take him long to find it.
Zaida: Arabic, "Fortunate." Abe smiles.
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Once, a few short years ago, I formed a connection to a rare and wondrous being. He used this connection to find me when I was held against my will, and now I am using it to seek him out. It is like a faint tug at the back of my mind, a fragile thread guiding my steps. I do not follow right away; I give him time to mourn. Then, months later, I find my way.
It has been a long journey, one which I've traveled since long before I ever met my friend. I once believed it to be endless, but now I know differently. Every journey ends, one way or the other. I have decided it's time to end mine.
It is beautiful, this place he now calls home. The still lake shines in the brilliant sun, reflecting the world around it like a gigantic mirror. I approach the two houses situated on either side of a small inlet. An errant breeze ruffles my hair, grown long enough for me to braid it in several loose strands as I did when I was young. The long, baggy shirt I typically wear is tied around my waist. I am clad in a simple white T-shirt, my scarred arms bare in the warm daylight, my face unhidden by a hood's shadow. I pass the first house. There is a family playing in the yard; two little infants, as unique as their deeply loving parents who laugh at their happy antics. The children continue playing as the man and woman pause to watch me pass. Out here, a new arrival is a rare sight indeed. Their mouths hang open in shock as recognition alights in their eyes. I raise my hand in a friendly wave, webbing stretched taut between my fingers. The man raises his stone hand in return, face slack with shock, while the woman laughs in wonder. I do not pause, but continue towards the second, smaller house. I hear music as I approach, pouring from the open windows. I smile as I recognize the tune and begin to hum along.
I walk to the back of the house, climb the low steps onto the deck, set my bag down by the open backdoor, and stride down the length of the pier. When I reach the end I lie on my stomach, stretched out on the sun-warmed boards, and stare down into the cloudy lake water. There is only the soft breeze, the scent of the water, and the music.
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her,
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover.
And you want to travel with her,
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.
A shadow slowly rises through the murk. Two large eyes the dark blue of a twilit sky. I do not flinch away as the familiar head breaks the surface. We stare into each other's eyes, the fish-man and I, so close we nearly touch. Abe's smile displays that cute little gap between his teeth. I've missed it so much.
"Hi," he says, hardly above a whisper.
I smile at my dearest friend. "Hi."