It was the sort of wild, implausible rescue that, looking back on it later, George could scarcely believe had happened in the first place. There they were, about to be eaten by that monster-squid and then flames began to spread over the weeds… and out pops a woman, tossing fuel oil at the beast and driving it off. She said her name was Elizabeth Castle. That they had about two minutes to get out of there before Mr. Squid came back, probably not in the best of moods.
After that, to George’s thinking, things were a little fuzzy.
Everything happened very fast. They threw what gear they could into her boat… one of those flat-bottomed things that looked like a big box, you saw them on TV, people poling around the bayou in them
… and carefully brought Gosling aboard, still not knowing what any of it was about and just goddamn happy they were being rescued.
Of course, Chesbro had to get some preaching in, saying, “You were sent by God, Miss, you surely were.”
To which she politely replied, “If you say.”
George and Pollard grabbed poles and joined the lady in directing them wherever it was they were going. That flat-bottomed little scow was really something in the weed. It glided right over the most tangled and knotted patches. Elizabeth Castle was apparently an old vet, because she steered them through the congested weed, darkness, and mushrooming fog where you couldn’t see ten feet in any direction. She brought them back to a big sailing yacht that said Mystic on her bow and couldn’t have been in the weed for too long.
On the way, Elizabeth had Chesbro toss pailfuls of fuel oil over the water at irregular intervals and light them up.
“The squid,” was all she would say. “For the squid.”
Then they were on board the yacht and had hoisted her flat-bottom aboard and that was it. It all came down quickly and efficiently. Elizabeth Castle was some kind of woman, all right.
And the Mystic?
Oh, she was big and beautiful.
That’s what George thought as she came up out of the mist, sleek and proud with a bow sharp enough to slit paper. He never thought he could love something so abstract as a boat, but he loved this one. He loved her size, her sleek lines, her draft in the sea. She was a big sailboat and he was in love. And, admittedly, he would’ve loved her had she been but a leaky barge loaded with sewage and buzzing flies.
After that U.S. Army-issue tin can that wasn’t much more than a buffet for the squid, yeah the Mystic was a beauty. Sure, she’d been through some rough weather and tough times-the sails were hanging like dirty rags from the shrouds and the masts themselves looked haggard, leaning awkwardly like they were ready to come down any minute-but all in all, the Mystic was looking pretty damn nice in comparison to the other hulks and derelicts going to rot in the weeds.
They went into the main cabin. Like the rest of the boat it smelled of dampness and dank mildew. It was carpeted in a thick, rich burgundy shag that nearly swallowed your feet. And it was dry, warm. Nice. There was a fixed oak table in the center of the room and a settee along each wall upholstered with fat cushions the color of blood. There was a bar with a leather bumper bad encircling it. It was a big, roomy place and George figured twenty people could’ve lounged around in there comfortably. In the back of his mind he could almost hear the laughter and drinks being poured, smell cigarette smoke and women’s perfume. He didn’t know who’d owned the Mystic, but he was willing to bet that whoever they’d been, they’d been rich.
“Is this your boat?” Cushing asked.
Elizabeth Castle shrugged. “Now it is.” She went into the next room, a galley probably and they could smell wood smoke. Again, it was nice. When she came back, she announced, “I’ll heat some coffee.”
They had Gosling stretched out on one of the couches. Cushing had given him a preloaded syringe of Demerol and he was feeling no pain. Which was about all they could do for him. Everyone introduced themselves and George gave her an encapsulated version of how they’d ended up in the Dead Sea and how it was they’d been on the transport plane.
“I watched you,” she told them. “I saw you coming through the mist on my telescope while it was still light. I had hoped you’d choose a better vessel than that one.”
George felt oddly like he’d been chastised. He swallowed. Elizabeth Castle was the first woman he’d seen in… Jesus, it was getting so he couldn’t remember anymore. But it had been awhile. Since they’d sailed on the Mara Corday from Norfolk. He wasn’t sure exactly how long that had been now. Days and days. Maybe weeks. Regardless, he hadn’t seen a woman since the docks. He supposed, at that moment, he was in love with Elizabeth Castle as he figured they all were. She would never be called beautiful, he decided, she was simply too hard- looking, too intense, but she was certainly striking. Tall and sleek, a sort of feline intensity about her green eyes, a full-lipped mouth that was unabashedly sensual.
She wore clothes that looked homemade… gray woolen pants and a matching baggy-sleeved shirt, worn leather vest and high black boots
… like the outfit of a 19 ^th century sailor. They were shapeless garments, designed for practicality rather than vanity, but she fit them very well. With her long auburn hair tossed over one shoulder and those green eyes blazing, she made you want to stare and keep staring.
“Your friend,” she said, standing over Gosling, “the squid?”
George nodded.
She didn’t look exactly concerned, but not unconcerned either. She was oddly emotionless, toughened by this anti-world, wore a mask that you didn’t dare try to lift.
“If you battle the squid,” she said, “you’d better understand the squid.”
With that, she went back into the galley. They could hear her in there, rattling tin cups.
“Maybe I’m dreaming all this,” George said.
“Maybe we all are,” Cushing said. He went to Gosling, checked his pulse and then his eyes. Did not look exactly optimistic about any of it.
The woman returned with tin cups steaming with coffee. Just the aroma was enough to make George want to weep. Maybe he did. He took the cup she offered him and it was warm and soothing in his hands. The coffee wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted, but right then, he couldn’t remember ever having any that good.
“The squid only hunts at night,” she explained to them. “During the day, it dives deep. It does not like light.”
“I take it you’ve had dealings with it before?” George said.
She ignored him, was watching Cushing with Gosling. Watching him very intently. There was almost a softness around her mouth when she looked at Cushing, like maybe he reminded her of someone else. And maybe he did.
“Are you a doctor, Mr. Cushing?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve had a little medical training. Just enough to get by.”
She stared at him for a time, turned away. “The squid only surfaces at night. Your lights might have drawn it in. I think it hunts by motion, by body heat… it may have been curious about your light. And then… its claws are venomous. Your friend could die.”
“You know a lot about that creature, don’t you?” Cushing said.
“It’s been here long as I have.” She considered that a moment. “I think it may live in the bottom of one of the old derelicts.”
“How long have you been here?” Chesbro asked.
She sighed. “I’m not sure. For a time we kept track, but not anymore. It seems like I’ve always been here. It’s been years, I know that much.”
“You said ‘we’… are there others?”
She shook her head. “There is myself, my Auntie Else… nobody else. There were ten of us once. The squid killed three the first week. The others… they were attacked by other things. My Uncle Richard, he died… was it last year? I can’t remember. He died of a heart ailment, I think. He went in his sleep. Now it’s just we two.”
George was struck by her almost formal mode of speech. It was peculiar. The sort of diction people used at one time in written correspondence. The idea of that started giving him some funny ideas about how long she’d been there.
“Where is your aunt?” Chesbro asked.
