Open Circle: Weston Ochse: Multiplex Fandango

Nuova puntata della rubrica Open Circle, dedicata all'approfondimento delle opere dei grandi autori horror e dark fantasy. In questo numero cercheremo di avvicinare la narrativa di Weston Ochse, vincitore del Bram Stoker Awards (e più volte finalista) candidato al Pushcart Prize e ad altri premi internazionali di genere. L'opera dell'autore che approfondiremo in particolare è la raccolta Multiplex Fandango, finalista alla ultima edizione del Bram Stoker Award, recentemente conclusasi. In esclusiva, grazie alla collaborazione con l'Agenzia Letteraria Dark Circle potrete leggere in versione integrale uno dei racconti della raccolta (in inglese), Fugue on the Sea of Cortez

Ma prima di leggere il racconto Fugue on the Sea of Cortez dalla raccolta  Multiplex Fandango (alla fine troverete anche un video con il reading) è il caso di iniziare presentando l'autore, partendo da una delle sue opere più significative, Scarecrow Gods, romanzo vincitore nel 2005 del Bram Stoker Awards per il miglior romanzo d'esordio.
Scarecrow Gods racconta la storia di Phinxs Maxom, un afro-americano catturato, torturato e sfigurato durante la guerra in Vietnam. Durante la sua prigionia uno stregone di nome Lo-Lo insegna a Maxom l’utilizzo di alcuni poteri mentali e psichici che gli consentiranno di sopravvivere a una morte certa. Maxom torna dalla guerra nel suo Tennessee, è temuto e insultato dalla gente a causa del suo aspetto, fa amicizia con Danny, un giovane ragazzino disturbato, la sorella adolescente è misteriosamente scomparsa, e girano voci di incesto tra lei e il padre, che nega ogni colpevolezza. Danny si chiede ogni giorno se sua sorella tornerà per cancellare tutto. Maxom insegnerà a Danny a usare i poteri psichici che ha imparato a dominare grazie a Lo-Lo, che consentono di entrare in un mondo speciale e controllare le menti degli animali, ma dove abitano anche pericolose creature. Nel sud dell'Arizona, Giovanni il Nuovo Battista ha creato una nuova religione che promette la salvezza, e molta gente crede nelle sue strane attività. Nessuno sembra capire che sta semplicemente creando una mandria umana per usi personali. Molti aderiscono, tra i quali diverse giovani ragazze che faranno una fine orrenda. Un gruppo di persone cercano di opporsi al Nuovo Battista, tra i quali Simon, un monaco che ha perso la fede, un barbone di nome Billy Bones che parla in palindromi, anagrammi e metafore e Gill Gooley, un’agente speciale dell’FBI.
L’autore porta tutti questi personaggi, molto diversi tra loro e fortemente caratterizzati, a convergere in una trama spaventosa quanto affascinante, disegnata con una narrativa incisiva, evocativa e divertente. Scaregrow Gods è un romanzo molto brillante, tra horror e dark fantasy, uno dei migliori esempi per conoscere le caratteristiche narrative di Weston Ochse, i suoi mondi affascinanti e avvincenti, i personaggi vividi e solidi, la fluidità della sua fantasia che riesce a tenere continuamente sulla corda i lettori. Sotto trovate il booktrailer del romanzo
Booktrailer di Scarecrow Gods
Continuando in questa introduzione al lavoro e alla narrativa di Weston Ochse, sotto riporto due video del reading del racconto The Crossing of Aldo Rey, finalista nel 2009 al Bram Stoker Award per il miglior racconto:
reading del racconto The Crossing of Aldo Rey -parte 1
reading del racconto The Crossing of Aldo Rey -parte 2
Sotto invece entriamo più nel privato dell'autore, osservando un video, da lui realizzato, che ci mostra il suo ufficio, la "stanza delle creazioni" dove Weston Ochse costruisce e anima le sue storie:
Tour nell'ufficio di Weston Ochse
Ma ora è il momento di presentare brevemente la raccolta di racconti e novelle Multiplex Fandango (Dark regions 2011), con una prefazione di Joe Lansdale,  che pochi giorni fa è risultata finalista alla ultima edizione del Bram Stoker Award per la migliore raccolta di narrativa. Continuando poi nel viaggio nel mondo di Weston Ochse potremo vedere il booktrailer di Multiplex Fandango, leggere uno dei racconti della raccolta, Fugue on the Sea of Cortez, pubblicato integralmente, e ascoltare anche il reading dell'autore. Alla fine del'articolo troverete inoltre un profilo dell'autore, le cover di alcuni suoi lavori, e un piccolo reading di una sceneggiatura, Desert Dogs, che ha vinto nel 2012 il Buffalo Scream Film Festival.
Multiplex Fandango contiene una rappresentazione completa di racconti e novelle dell'autore, il racconto The Crossing di Aldo Rey, precedentemente segnalato,  la  novella Redemption Roadshow, finalista allo Stoker , altri racconti tra i preferiti dei lettori e dalla critica, come Catfish Gods  e Big rock Candy Mountain. Sono dunque inclusi  in questo volume sedici racconti e novelle tra i quali sei opere originali scritte appositamente per la raccolta, come Tarzan Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Low Men Weeping e City Of Joy. Joe Lansdale di Multiplex Fandango ha scritto: Questo libro potrebbe essere stato scritto per me. E' proprio questo il punto, si tratta di un'opera che stimola il lettore alla ricerca di fantasia, di intelligenza, di una interpretazione della paura come freccia che colpisce e scuote personali riflessioni, più che come qualcosa alla quale reagire istintivamente. Ma il modo migliore per presentare, e comprendere, la natura di Multiplex Fandango è leggere uno dei racconti più interessantie originali come Fugue on the Sea of Cortez :  sotto, dopo l'alternativo booktrailer del libro, trovare la pubblicazione integrale del racconto, seguita dal video del reading dell'autore:

Booktrailer
Fugue on the Sea of Cortez di Weston Ochse (da Multiplex Fandango - Dark Regions 2011)
He’d traveled from The Panama Canal to Puerto Peñasco listening to soundtrack created to drown the memories of his own cowardice. angermouse, Van Halen, AC DC and Madonna reinvented themselves in a thunderous Crazy-For-Those-About-To-Rock-Might-As-Well-Jump-Material-Girl-We-Salute-You crucible where he was the strong, confident avalier that he’d always wanted to be since he’d grown-up reading about he scions of Shannara, improbable hobbits and Stainless Steel Rat space heroes. Really nothing more than vapid electronic musings, fugue voices that carried him along on an expository stretto until his escape chute landed somewhere else where the women were fine, the liquor was cheap, and his conscience had a way to escape. “Uno mas, por favor.” The bartender wordlessly slid another frozen margarita over from the platoon of drinks he’d prepared for the afternoon rush. “Gracias.” Thomas Greely Jones relished the icy tequila, so far the only deterrent against Mexico’s molten heat. He gazed out the window and watched the boats returning from a day of shrimping, the air above them swirling with pelicans and gulls eager to steal the day’s catch. Whiteskinned tourists lay on the beach in front of their resort hotels, their drinks served by malnourished, brown-skinned locals. Rich white kids skipped along the water’s edge, their boogie boards slipping across the waves in mad gyrations, oblivious to squalor, their only concern the moment and the now. Farther out to sea along the azure waves of the Sea of Cortez, a dozen swimmers treaded water, their gazes locked on the horizon. All seemed as it should be except for these twelve swimmers. For the life of him, Thomas couldn’t figure out what they were about. The waves of the Sea of Cortez were the most languid of the sort. The swimmers didn’t have diving apparatus, as one would expect a group such as theirs to have, perhaps waiting for pickup after a long day of coral snooping? What were they doing? Why were they treading water when they could turn, swim and easily make the shore? He was about to ask the bartender, his mind already searching for the words in Spanish, when she walked in. Mid-twenties and blonde with an athletic build, she wore flip-flops, black shorts and a black T-shirt with the slogan Army of One emblazoned across the front. Her hair hung halfway down her back. Elfin features surrounded a freckled nose. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t place it. She found a seat by the window, kicked off her flip-flops and drew her feet beneath her. She stared at the sea, the dozen swimmers, and the horizon , her furrowed brow the only expression on a face that could raise a nation. Then he had it and his heart sunk with the memory. Her expression reminded him of his mother’s when he’d told her he was going AWOL. Away Without Leave was the official term, and she hadn’t begrudged him his decision, although he could have sworn she could see inside him. Her eyes had never been accusing, but had held him in their inquisitive rays as she tried to plumb the depths of his conscience to determine if it was something she’d done which had caused such a heroic malfunction. He’d told her what he’d told his First Sergeant when he’d called that final time before he turned his back on the red, white and blue. “I’m a conscientious objector. I did my time in hell. I spent one tour in the box. I saw things no kid should ever see. Limbs blown off. Sucking chest wounds. Bodies shattered from IEDs. I shouldn’t be forced to do it again while other kids live safe, happy lives.” Thomas was a mechanic and had been promised that if he’d re-enlisted he’d be assigned to Fort Carson, Colorado. But no sooner had he found a place to stay and grabbed a season pass at Breckenridge than his unit had won the Iraq lotto and been awarded an all expense paid ticket back to the sandbox. His unit had left for Ramadi, his friends had gone to Hell, and he’d left for Panama. The bar began to fill after she arrived. A few honeymooners, some snowbirds from the RV Park off of Oro Del Mar Beach and some ex-Pats back from a soccer game soon turned the gloomy interior into a den of laughter and light. Everyone seemed to be having a good time except her. She finished one margarita and stirred her empty glass with a straw as she gazed at the ocean. Thomas saw his chance. He grabbed two fresh margaritas and sat down beside her. “Thought you might be thirsty.” She continued to stare at the sea. “After all, you are in a bar,” he added undeterred. He’d been in Mexico for nearly two months, and although he’d seen other women, this one intrigued him the most. Perhaps it was her shirt and the possibility of sharing fear that pulled him towards her. Army of One. What a screwed up motto. He didn’t even know what it meant and he’d lived the life for three years. Long moments passed before she finally spoke. “I come in here for the view.” The Black Dolphin held the high ground on a rocky promontory overlooking Bahia de Sonora on the Sea of Cortez and indeed had a spectacular view. Only the lighthouse above the bar boasted a better one, but it didn’t have a happy hour so it didn’t count. He pushed the sweating margarita glass closer to her, hoping his offer would be the olive branch he needed to get her talking. She took it, drank slowly and resumed her vigil, moisture beads on the outside of the glass slipping across her knuckles and onto the table. Something about her gaze told a tale of loss in the making, compelling him. “Is everything okay?” “Sure.” She nodded vaguely in his direction. “My name is Tom.” “June.” She held out a hand. He took it. “I wonder what they’re doing.” She glanced at him for the first time and he felt the weight of her gaze. “Those twelve in the water, they just seem to be floating out there and I can’t see the reason for it.” She frowned. “Perhaps they have their own reasons, something you wouldn’t understand.” Her voice held a trace of Southern accent – Georgia or South Carolina, maybe. “They seem to be waiting for something,” he said, trying desperately to keep the conversation going. “What do you think that is?” Her question hung in the air, until finally he was forced to admit, “I really have no idea.” “That should make you happy, then.” He cocked his head at her odd response, a ready smile in case she was making fun of him. But she was serious. He polled his conscience to see if this one was really worth it. He’d love to find a way to get into her heart, or into her pants, if nothing else but for the sport of it. But were his efforts worth the trouble? Her responses were odd and disjointed. Either she was crazy as a loon, or there was something more going on than he could see. “Listen, I’m hungry. Want to join me for dinner?” “I’m not who you think I am,” she said. “You don’t want to be with me.” There it was again, such an odd answer to a simple question. Still, he grinned. “I’m just looking for some company. It’s been awhile since I had a conversation in American. If you can trust me for an hour or two, I promise to keep my hands and feet outside your safety zone.” And then the most glorious thing happened. She smiled briefly transforming her face into the girl she’d most surely been before she’d been beset by whatever events had placed her here. She caught him once again with her gaze. “Just remember that I warned you. I come with lots of baggage.” He held out his hands. “We’re just having dinner. I can handle it. Come on, I heard that there’s a tapas bar that makes great shrimp tacos just down the street.” As they stood to leave, a boat arrived to pluck the dozen swimmers from the ocean...only there seemed to be less than there was before. Thomas counted ten, then shook his head. Where had the other two gone? He must have missed them, or miscounted, or something.
Dinner was fabulous. But that was the end of it. She bade him goodbye before the dessert came and rushed from the restaurant. By the time he’d paid their check and hurried after her, she was nowhere to be found. He went to bed longing for her. The next morning he awoke gasping. Mixed with dreams of a diaphanous mermaid and an undersea behemoth, he’d imagined her weighty gaze holding him down beneath the waves as he struggled to breathe. He showered for an hour, way past the end of the hot water, determined to wash off traces of the dream. By lunch he’d almost forgotten the drowning. By happy hour, he looked forward to seeing her again. June Enright from Spartanburg, South Carolina. He’d decided that the dream was just that, a dream. It meant nothing and was little more than his synapses dealing with alcohol, shrimp and the idea of love.
She came in at the same time as the day before. She began to head for her usual seat, but hesitated when she saw him. She stared a moment, then lowering her head in embarrassment, smiled and joined him. “Where’d you go last night?” he asked. “I had to be somewhere.” “Immediately? By the time I paid, you were nowhere to be seen.” “I was in a hurry.” He began to say something else, but her sigh stopped him cold. He waited a moment, but could tell by the arch of her back that she didn’t want to get into it. Instead of pressing her, he ordered a margarita for her. She drank, her eyes on the sea. Only occasionally did she look at him.Increasingly her looks at him became fonder. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his silence, or if there was a more real connection between them. Strangely he found himself both accepting and wanting. A far cry from the predator he knew himself to be. He’d given himself to this woman and found himself emotionally dependant on her glances and decisions and it oddly pleased him. And it was his private wistful smile that he hadn’t even realized he’d revealed that gave him away. “What is it?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me that way?” “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s you. Maybe it’s me.” His truth inspired him. “I barely know you and all I can think is that I want to know you better.” She blushed, hiding any further reaction in her drink. This encouraged him. They’d talked about the mundane the previous evening, relating disconnected stories of friends and things they’d seen on their travels. Nothing revealing. Nothing personal. Now he wanted to get to know her as a person. He wanted to discover why she’d chosen this backwash Mexican resort as a hang out. He wanted to know about her Army shirt and what it meant to her. He wanted to know why she’d come to him and blushed. Forgotten were some of her first words— You don’t want to be with me. He was so wrapped up in the process of falling in love, his only thought was how she thought of him and what he wanted to be so she could love him too. By the end of the evening, she’d cast off broad chunks of her armor, revealing a young woman she’d admitted not having seen for a long time. She’d told him her story, and in the catharsis of the telling, wept over the murder of her friends. Ann, Susan and Gretchen had evaporated in an explosion of light and flame when their HUMMER had struck an IED. June had been in the second vehicle and, although she’d left without a scratch, her soul had been shredded by the event. Eventually they left the restaurant and walked the beach ending up at Fisherman’s Square where the locals gathered to pray for divine intervention. The statue rising from the middle of the expanse was so impressive it was out of place in the dusty Mexican port town. One hundred feet tall, it seemed more permanent than the stone upon which it had been built, as if it’d risen through the earth’s crust rather than been built upon it. Cut from a great block of metal, a ten-story fisherman sat upon the back of a giant shrimp, the legs and antenna of the crustacean wrapping about the man’s limbs like tentacles. The detail of the figures was such that they appeared ready to resume life, the monster shrimp returning to the waves to be hunted by the Poseidon-like Mexican fisherman. But it was more than that. Their combative embrace held a sort of serene camaraderie, as if each depended upon the other to survive; more partners than adversaries. Thomas and June stopped before the statue, looking up and up until they spied the man’s Don Quixote head framed by a Milky Way halo in the wide night sky. Several fishermen had gathered nearby. Some prayed silently. Others left fruit at the base of the statue. Still others drank quietly with an eye towards the shrimp. An ancient woman wrapped in layers of a red and orange shawl stood lonely vigil, her weathered face upturned, as if the man would come alive and speak with her if she only waited long enough. Traveling up the coast from the Chiapas States, he’d been in Puerto Peñasco for a little more than a day before he’d met June. One unifying theme in all the places he’d visited seemed to be the Cult of Catholicism. He’d grown up around churches in America, but Mexicans took it to another level, one that would put even Southern Baptists to shame. They worshiped Mary as if she were a goddess herself. Jesus reigned on every corner. Whitewashed walls, mud-daubed hovels and Spanish mission-style buildings were adorned with evidence of Catholic worship, as if each architectural creation rising above the earth was its own monolithic prayer to Jesus, Mary and Jehovah. Most of the places along the coast were little more than replicas of themselves, but this town had a different feel. The same Catholic cultism was everywhere, but added to that was an older feel, as if it had been rooted in the earth since creation. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it until just now, but looking at the statue made him realize that the people in this town were older, much older. The old woman in the shawl marked her age with a deeply creviced face and eyes like sunken marbles. He’d read that the town had been a fishing village even before the Spanish came to the land. Somehow that age translated to reality. The age of the place, the way the sun fell into the sea every night, and this monolithic statue, separated this town from all the rest.
June squeezed his hand. “You’ll be moving on soon. When’s the last time you saw your mother? She sounds like a wonderful woman.” “Hold on. No need to rush me out of here. I thought I’d stay awhile.” “There’s a hard line between living here and visiting. If you’re visiting, then there’s a time to leave. Maybe now is that time.” “What’s the hurry?” He grinned, hoping it would be contagious. “Besides, I kind of like it here.” “You’re staying because of me, aren’t you?” He hesitated but a moment. “Of course I am. You’re the best thing to happen to me in months. Years,” he hurriedly added. “I thought I’d hang out, but if you don’t want me, hell.” She stared at him, her eyes wide pools of fear, but then something happened and she looked away. The soft liquid pools hardened to stone. Her lips made a thin line. “Then leave. I don’t want you here.” He’d only been testing her, but her response cut him. It cut him deep. His face began to burn. “I can leave tomorrow,” he said.
The tepid temperature of the water surprised him. South towards the entrance of the Bay of California where the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific Ocean meet, the water was cool and refreshing. He’d surfed there six weeks ago and would go back in a heartbeat. Yet here, only a few hundred miles north, the water was almost bathtub warm, and not at all comfortable. But then the water was the least of his worries. The rope attached from his ankle to the statue far beneath the waves was what had spooked him the most. He hadn’t seen the statue, but when one of the others had asked what they were to be tethered to, the quick Spanish answer of the old man who drove the truck said something about it being like the statue in the town only larger. Looking around at the eleven other swimmers, he wondered which one would die this day. He knew it could be him, but the whole thing didn’t seem real. What had she said? “I did it three times. I wanted to die the first two and was pissed when the boat came to take me away. After all, why was I still alive? Why was I the one to carry on the memory of the living? I didn’t want it. I didn’t deserve it.” “But you went back? Why’d you do that?” “The third time was soothing. I didn’t care at that point. I’d met twenty men and been fucked eleven times. I’d written letters to my mother that I’d never mail. I’d even made a video on my cell phone that was my last will, testament and fuck you to the world. I think I survived because I wanted to die.” She’d seen his face which had puckered in surprise and had caressed it as she straddled him once more. She took him in and moved, her eyes seeking a land between reminiscence and heaven. “No. That’s not really true. I think I survived because I finally understood that I didn’t have to pay for it.” “Pay for what?” “Living,” she sighed as yet another orgasm shook her. “Living other people’s lives.” After a time when she’d cleaned up and they lay together in the bed, he’d thought about what she’d said and about what she’d gone through and what he hadn’t and couldn’t help but voice the words on his mind. “It’s easy to forget the living have their own weight to carry.” She nodded in a way that reminded him of John Wayne in They Were Expendable, as if the knowledge had its own weight and brought her head low so she couldn’t look someone directly in the eye. The image was helped by her imitation of the actor as he said in his patented slow drawl, “Don’t discount dumb luck. We’ve all seen assholes walking around that should have been killed at birth.”

  He tried to smile at the remark, but found it difficult, wary that she might have been talking about him. Seeing her mistake she smiled sheepishly and retracted some of what she’d said. “I mean that those who should have died are alive and viceversa. Not everyone is meant to live.” “So you don’t believe in a higher power?” “When it comes to living, maybe, but not when it comes to dying. I saw too many friends die.” Then she’d told him the story of Jill and her other friends and the IED and how her best friend’s foot had landed in her lap. Looking towards the shore, he tried to spot the Black Dolphin where he’d sat just three days ago when he’d first seen the swimmers. He polled his thoughts. Was it all because of her? He’d been drifting in Mexico for months, looking for what he did not know. Yet look he did, moving and flitting like an ash caught on the winds. Was it she he’d been looking for? Or perhaps was it a reason for it all to be. The shirt she’d worn that first day had drawn him to her more than her looks. He’d come to find out that she’d spent the previous two years off and on in various suburbs of Baghdad, trying to quell dissident factions and stay alive as a sergeant in the U.S. Army. On her last trip home to Spartanburg, she’d decided she wasn’t going back to the war and had fled to Mexico. That had been nine months ago, six of which she’d spent in Puerto Peñasco. After they’d seen the statue in the square, they’d found a coffee shop. She’d apologized for saying what she’d said, then had grabbed his hand and held it. Neither of them wanted to end the evening, so the warmth of the strong Mexican coffee was the perfect defense against the cold onshore breeze and the sleep that waited to ensnare them. “Why is it you didn’t go back?” he’d asked after she’d told him the story. June shrugged, pausing only to blow on the surface of her coffee and push a few strands of her straw-colored hair behind her ear. The next question was a minefield, so instead of asking, he spun it into a truism. “I know I’d be scared if I went back. There’s so much death. So much random death. I don’t know if I could take not being able to see it coming.” “Some people like that about death. They like it to be a surprise. They say the waiting and the knowing is worse than the actual event itself.” He looked at her and blinked. “Would you rather it was a surprise?” “I’d rather not die at all.” She smiled briefly. “But that’s not your question, is it? There are those who are so worried that they want to control everything around them. You know the types. They even want to control death, as if such a force could be controlled. Me? I like to know what I’m getting into. Once I understand things, I can accept what fate deals me. Bottom line: do I care if I die? Yes. Am I going to spend all day thinking about it? No.”“ “So you believe in fate?” “The word is too inadequate.” She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. I believe in signs. I don’t know if that’s fate, or God, or what. You wanted to know why I didn’t go back? I’ll tell you. We were driving through Haditha District in our HUMMER, coming back from delivering medicine to a family who’d lost their father to a police station bombing when it happened. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” “Uh... I’m not sure.” “Signs. Like when you want to place a bet and you look up and see a number you’ve never noticed before. Or like when a deer zips across the road making you slow down, only to discover that had you taken the next curve at your original speed, you would have plowed into the car that had already overturned. Signs.” “Yeah. I get it. Signs.” “So we were coming back when I just happened to look over and watch as a man leaned back and fired his RPG directly at us. I was close enough to see the fervor in his eyes. I was close enough to see the grin of satisfaction as our gazes met across the trail of the rocket heading right for me. I was close enough to see a birthmark near his temple.” She closed her eyes as if reliving the moment. “I was close enough to know that I’d been murdered,” she whispered. He stared at her for a time, then shook his head. “Jesus. What happened?” “Nothing,” she shrugged and opened her eyes. “The rocket-propelled grenade bounced off the Hummer. It never exploded. I don’t know who was more surprised, me or the guy who tried to kill me.” “And you took this as a sign?” “Most definitely. This was a warning shot across my bow. It told me to get the hell out. A week later I came home on mid-tour leave, and well, I’m here, instead of there.” Now that her tale was done, she fixed him with a steady gaze, her blue eyes daring recrimination. But he had none. His tale was worse than hers. At least she’d left for a reason. Thomas was a deserter too, and he realized that he had no reason other than his own fear.
Something tugged on his leg. Something soft, yet firm, tentative yet insistent. Then it was gone. He counted to twenty and had begun to believe that he’d imagined it, but there it was again. He felt a series of gentle tugs against his naked ankles. Momentary panic flooded his system until he realized it was the current. Floating like a bobber on a fishing line, he knew that if something down there wanted him, he’d be jerked below the surface so fast he’d be lucky to catch a breath. He treaded water with his hands, pushing across the waves in a gentle doggy paddle. Occasionally a wave would crest and explode across his face, leaving him gasping. Each time he’d wonder why he’d put himself in such a position. He was too afraid to return to Iraq, but not afraid to tempt a god to eat him. Perhaps it was because he’d seen the death Iraq represented. He’d seen the body parts of his friends. He’d watched as the light had fled from their eyes. But the god beneath the waves, the old thing that ruled this solitary sea, he’d never seen, unless the statue had something to do with it. Did he have to see death to be afraid of it? Was that the lesson here? Early this morning as he was preparing for his sacrifice, June had admitted to having talked to no less than twenty men over the last six months. Six she’d convinced to bob and each one was eventually taken by what was beneath the waves. She’d given him one last chance to leave, but he’d foolishly remained firm in his desire to prove his love and banish his fear. “They have a tradition here that goes back a thousand years,” she’d whispered while they lay in bed the previous night awash in the sweat of their sex. “Their god must be fed. There once was a time when they’d feed those captured from other tribes, so they had wars, and captured victims to be sacrifices. But the 20th Century came and peace overwhelmed them, as it eventually does when cultures become more civil. So to appease the god, they began a tradition. Three times a man could tie himself to the statue. And three times he must survive. And if this man survives, he gains a power over his own fear greater than any other man, because fear, more than anything else, controls and makes us a slave. This process, this thing they do here on the Sea of Cortez, is a crucible of heroes.” She’d been one of the only women to tempt the god. She’d said that at first they wouldn’t let her. She’d had to convince them. She’d had to beg them to let her be a part of the sacrifice so she could banish her own fear. In the end they’d relented. Pain like a pin piercing his leg made him yelp. This was followed by another and then another as something with teeth attacked his ankle. He thrashed in the water, his legs kicking, one free, the other attached to the rope that held him to the undersea god. The man beside him thrashed as well. Their eyes met momentarily and he recognized his own terror in the bulging orbs of the other. A scream erupted from farther down the line. Thomas turned in time to see a man disappear beneath the water, but had no time to contemplate the other’s fate. Something hard moved against his own leg. Then he was jerked beneath the water. He’d managed to take a breath and now held it as hard as he’d ever held anything. Like a rope to freedom, the oxygen in his lungs was the only thing that kept him safe from drowning or... Panic electrified him as he finally saw the beast moving beneath him. Or the beasts, to be more specific. First came the shrimp. Thousands of them. Their pereopod and pleopod spines pierced his skin as they skittered over and around him. The man on his left was completely covered, as if the crustaceans were feasting, their dagger-like legs rising and falling as bubbles escaped in an undersea cloud. As the shrimp swarmed him, Thomas scraped his hands across his chest and arms, shoving them away, ignoring the pain as best he could. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry at the surreality of the events that were transpiring, but he dared not. Instead, he kicked and scraped and stared agog at the fates of the others. Following the rope to where it was affixed to the statue, he saw that part of the statue had come alive. Eight antennae from the gargantuan shrimp were whipping through the water like scythes through wheat. Two men had been grasped around the waists and were being pulled deeper and deeper. One had already died, his lungs filled with water, his eyes wide with lifelessness. The other was determined to live and as he sought anything that might help him. His gaze darting desperately around him, he spied Thomas. He willed the man to hold his breath longer. He willed his own breath into him. He prayed that the great beast might forget about its human morsel and release the poor man. But none of that happened. Instead, Thomas watched as the air finally exploded from the man’s mouth when he was unable to hold his breath any longer. Eyes that were at first wild with panic softened as the weight of life left him. Then Thomas was released and he popped above the water like a bobber that had just been teased by a fish. He gasped. His chest heaved. The man next to him and two farther down the line were gone. There were nine of them left and he felt a little less human for the happiness he felt, glad it wasn’t him. He remembered something June had told him. “I used to think I was lucky that it wasn’t me. But then when I continued being so lucky, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Why should I have all the luck? What did I do to deserve to live when everyone else was dying?” Luck. Guilt. He didn’t care. He was just happy to be alive. He stared into the windows of the Black Dolphin knowing that June was there waiting for him. He could go to her, sleep with her and tempt death two more times, or he could leave right now and never look back. For a moment he thought the choice was between love and life, but then he realized that it was simpler than that. His choice was about choice. To stay would be to leave his destiny in something else’s hands. June should have died in Iraq and was condemned to live with her own mortality, her destiny tied to the souls of the dead. That RPG should have exploded, taking her with it, and she couldn’t deal with the fact that she continued to live. She couldn’t live with that. For all the living she did, she wasn’t living. A carload of young men his age pulled into the parking lot of the Black Dolphin. They piled out, falling drunkenly together in a gaggle of indefatigable fun and headed inside. She’d take one, just as she’d taken him, and she’d sacrifice him. Thomas remembered hearing something when he was in Iraq, and he couldn’t help but believe that it was connected to the tale she’d told him. Somehow, someway, the insurgents believed that there were force fields around HUMMERS. In an inspired sequence of insane determinations, they’d figured out that wrapping the explosive round with duct tape would allow the round to pass through the force field. With this technique, the insurgents found immediate success and began to wrap more and more RPG rounds with the tape, as if they’d discovered a secret as important and necessary as cold fusion. Thomas couldn’t help but believe that their belief in force fields stemmed from that singular RPG that had failed to explode June’s HUMMER in the city of Haditha, the insurgent gunner convinced his careful aim had been foiled by an American force field. Thomas would never be sure, but the odds were in his favor, and the mystery of how unrelated events could be connected and reinvented in logic would become his coda until the day he died. But for now he had a choice. And he chose to go home. And for a long time he forgot about his attempt to become a Don Quixote on the Sea of Cortez, tilting at sea monsters for the charms of a young woman. But then sometime in the future it will come to him. Perhaps even years later, standing in the aisle of a hardware store the memory will surface. Thomas Greely Jones will reach for a roll of tape and return to the memory of his days in Puerto Peñasco: June; the holy duct tape insurgents wrapped around their grenades; the RPG that rang off June’s HUMMER that didn’t kill her but killed her spirit; the constant search for control they all had with death at every door; and the tentacled-truth of the god beneath the waves who promised to remove his fear, if only he’d play a celestial game of bobbing for apples. He’d shudder at how close he’d come to dying so that someone else might live. It might take a moment, it might take an hour, but eventually he’d collect himself, put the tape in his cart, pay for it and return home to his wife and children. He’d use that tape to repair something mundane, something necessary, and think about how his life had almost been undone in his attempt to remove his fear and become the cavalier hero he’d always wanted to be. Then his wife would call him to dinner and he’d sit with his family, his eyes occasionally distant as he remembered the Sea of Cortez as he sat and ate and reveled, happy to be alive, a contented cavalier whose windmills are such things in life that we all try and tilt.
Story Notes: There’s something about all Cthulhu Mythos stories that terrifies me and that’s the idea that we are some insignificant speck. I’d wanted to write another mythos story for a while, and when I saw the 100
foot statue of the fisherman and the giant shrimp in Puerto Peñasco (yes there really is one), visions of Dagon swam through my mind. So I channeled Brian Lumley and added my particular American perspective. Please forgive me for the ending. The story was about choice, ultimately, and once someone makes that choice, well, the story is over. I allowed for a little denouement, just enough to allow Thomas’s decision to sink in, just enough to allow that it could be you who made the same decision… or not.
Reading di Fugue on the Sea of  Cortez

Profilo dell'autore Weston Ochse: Autore horror statunitense, ha vinto il Bram Stoker Award, è stato candidato al Pushcart Prize e ad altri premi internazionali di genere, ha al suo attivo circa quindici pubblicazioni, tra romanzi, raccolte e novelle, tra le quali Scarecrow Gods (vincitore del Bram Stoker Award nel 2005 per il migliore romanzo d'esordio), Redemption Roadshow (finalista  al Bram Stoker Award nel 2008), Recalled to Life, The Golden Thread, The Crossing of Aldo Ray (finalista  al Bram Stoker Award nel 2009), The Track of the Storm, Blood Ocean, Multiplex Fandango (finalista all'ultima edizione del Bram Stoker Award) oltre a vari racconti pubblicati in antologie e magazines. Website. Weston Ochse è rappresentato in Italia dalla Agenzia Letteraria Dark Circle

da sinistra: Rio Youers, Peter Straub, Weston Ochse

Weston Ochse è rappresentato in italia dalla Agenzia Letteraria Dark Circle. per maggiori informazioni sui diritti di pubblicazione delle opere dell'autore: info@darkcircle.it