Photo by Sierra Hartman
I
Despite its general reputation for rain and murk, the summer months in Cascadia are dry and sunny. The northern latitude of the locale and tilt of the planet making these the days of too much of a good thing. Birds greet the sunrise early, waking the still tired humans that had waited late into the evening for twilight and slumber to come.
It is the winter months that justifies the reputation, with the region’s back now turned to the sun, and the relentless sea spreading its cold vapor across the land, the place becomes an opus of water and darkness.
As the seasonal pendulum swings through October, the pace of the impending gloom quickening, it sometimes pauses momentarily on a perfect day. A day in which the warmth of the light from earth’s nearest star balances out the chill in the air; and the lower autumnal angle of this light gives the fall colors a soft glow. This story begins on one of those days.
II
Matt watched Mathilda paddle hard to catch up. Her blue kayak vanishing in the deeper blue of Puget Sound. He thought of Wonder Woman in her invisible plane, flying through the sky but oddly also one with the sky.
The lush greens of the firs and cedars blanketed the shore, their emerald tones dotted with the reds and golds of the deciduous trees going out in the proverbial blaze of glory. Perhaps the majesty of this day was amplified by the bittersweet knowledge that it would all soon fade to winter gray, but for whatever the reasons—it was beautiful.
Mathilda was also beautiful. Matt was struck by how lucky he was to have spent forty years with a woman like this, and for them to both still be healthy enough to do the things they loved outdoors. The splendor of the day, and of being on the water without the noise and churn of the summer boats, drew Matt and Mathilda together like an invisible thread. In that moment they were content. The elusive state of peaceful happiness that cannot be grasped tightly, just enjoyed until it slips away.
As Mathilda pulled up beside Matt, the local seals watched with their curious gaze. Their dog shaped heads earned them the couple’s nick name “puppers”, and their cute and sometimes playful presence always felt like a welcome. Look more closely though, and you’d see the puppers’ black eyes swallowed the light like miniature black holes. They are of two worlds, this surface realm of brightness, and the darker dominion below.
The closest seal descended in the seemingly casual way of their kind, straight down without a splash or ripple. It’s possible their unceremonious departure is less about indifference and more about resignation. They breathe easy at the surface and appear relaxed in the shallows, but once Matt had seen a seal menacing his boat from the depths below. There was nothing cute or welcoming about the way it charged towards the surface. To live much of life holding your breath, in a constant struggle to find food without being eaten by something bigger, requires a resolve to survive most humans in the modern world have forgotten.
III
As usual, Matt and Mathilda’s destination was the passage between their bay and the island. From there they’d be able to see the big volcano to the east and the smaller jagged peaks to the west. They often saw porpoises in the passage, and this time of year the winter birds would be arriving. Buffleheads, Surf Scooters and Golden Eyes summer in the far north. As the days grow shorter, they are drawn back to the protein rich waters of Puget Sound, assuming their annual role as both predators and prey in this insatiable food chain.
Not usual, was the wall of fog that suddenly became visible as they cleared the eastern point of the bay. While the deep and fast running waters of the Narrows often created its own weather, making the surrounding area damper and colder, Matt and Mathilda had never seen it generate something so dramatic. The wall was three hundred feet high and stretched more than a mile from the point to the far side of the island. It was as if a giant slab of granite had thrust itself straight up out of the water.
Mathilda would have preferred to stay in the golden light and calmer waters of the passage. She knew Matt’s “just a little closer” was a ruse, he wouldn’t stop until he reached the fog. As was his nature, Matt was interested in moving on to whatever was next or different. The one exception to this character trait was his life-long commitment to Mathilda, which was why she loved him. They paddled towards the fog.
As they drew nearer to the Narrows the air turned cold. The outgoing tidal current grew stronger, pulling them forward. Mathilda knew it wouldn’t stop Matt, but felt obliged to say “it’s going to suck paddling back, let’s turn around.” They kept going.
Somehow the fog was just as dense up close as it had from the distance of the sunlit passage. Sitting in their kayaks less than ten feet in front of it, the wall pulsed and throbbed, driven by winds emanating somewhere from within. Whether from fear or the chilled dank air surrounding him, the flesh on Matt’s arms stood up. A stench of rotting fish permeated the dampness, a smell so strong Matt retched and nearly threw up. It was all almost enough to keep him from reaching out and touching the fog. Almost.
IV
If you’ve ever been far from a road, with only what you carry on your back to keep you alive and get you home safe, you likely know the difference a change in the weather can make to your state of mind. Sunny days in the wilderness are full of hope and awe, but when the light is swallowed by the clouds and the temperature drops, only the most stalwart adventurers can keep their thoughts from turning dark. Unless you are unprepared, a little cold and rain is not a crisis; but its arrival makes you want to pack up and go home. Maybe this is a survival instinct, an ancestral memory telling you to seek out places where it is warm and dry.
Now imagine this sense of foreboding a thousand times greater than you’ve ever felt and you’ll only know a fraction of what happened to Matt as he reached into the fog. The response was instant; his mouth and lungs made a cry of horror that has existed since before the time of words, his body temperature dropped several degrees, and his bladder and bowels let go.
As he sat there in his own filth, shivering and dazed, he saw movement. Not one of the usual benign marine animals that were his constant companions on the water, this was so much bigger. It looked like snakes, or arms, it was neither and it was both.
Something touched his hand as he jerked it from the fog. His mind shattered, as if everything he had ever feared became real at the same time.
V
You can stop here. The story can end with Mathilda hearing Matt’s howl and turning her kayak towards him. She talks to him gently, it breaks the spell of his panic, they paddle away from the fog and make it home. She comforts him, they take a shower, have sex in the easy way of lifelong partners, then eat something warm and fall asleep on the couch. Matt never enters the water again, but otherwise their story goes on for a while as “happily ever after” as mortals can achieve. That isn’t how the story ends, but I don’t blame you for wanting it to go that way. I do, but it doesn’t.
VI
Mathilda was stunned by the noise Matt made. It was primeval, it was universal, it was the sound of terror. She turned to look at him, afraid of what she’d see, and noticed too late her boat being pulled into the fog. She couldn’t fight it. She was gone.
Matt watched her go; his wordless cry was replaced by a scream: “MATHILDA.” He went into the fog; he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name, he screamed her name…
VII
When a woman walking her dog found Matt unconscious on the shore the next day, he woke trying to scream Mathilda. His mouth opened, but his shredded vocal cords were too far gone to make a noise. Seeing Matt’s mouth moving silently in anguish, the part of the dog’s mind that could never be domesticated chose flight over fight. The dog didn’t bark, it just ran, and it ran every night in its dreams for the rest of its life.
The police visited Matt in the hospital, when he finally could talk his story didn’t make sense. It’s usually the husband they thought, maybe his frantic state was caused by guilt and regret, still guilt.
The prosecutor read the report, she visited Matt, then she met with the detective over a cup of coffee and said “drop the charges.” They had worked together for years this lawyer and cop, and never before had the cop seen the lawyer so shaken after meeting with a suspect. The cop didn’t understand, but his trust in her judgement was resolute, he said “OK.”
Searching for answers, the cop found an archived incident report. A brother and sister out fishing in the Narrows, only the sister came back—the lawyer. The cop found other reports of disappearances, many included sightings of strange movement in the water. So many people gone, why didn’t he remember, and why after reading a file did the details immediately begin to fade? The more he read, the colder and more confused he became, his mind moving farther and farther into a fog.
VIII
It’s a sad fact, but on the Narrows bridge there are signs offering the solace of a 1-800 number and a plea to give life one more chance. People still jump, most of them want to die, and most of them do.
Matt stands in the fog by one of these signs, wanting to jump, but not necessarily to die. He remembers hope and tries to feel it. But hope for what end? Matt’s understanding of how the world works had been blown apart, so maybe it was possible Mathilda had found the resolve to hold her breath and survive. Should he hope she was waiting in the depths and by jumping he could somehow save her? Or should he hope that she was at peace and by jumping he could find the same? Or should he hope to simply overcome his dread and jump, regardless of what comes next, so he could be with Mathilda again and forever?
Paralyzed by his anguish and fear, he does the only thing he can. He screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name, he screams her name…
