Ran's Embrace

[Published in Black Dragon webzine]


Cheslav lay on the glistening deck, exhausted and overcome with shock, his vision blurred by a torrent of tears. The stink of dead fish filled the salty air, but he was oblivious to this, tormented by the aftermath of death. He was a man, albeit a young one, yet even a man could weep, there was no shame in that. The choppy Galodni ocean was the sole witness to those streaming droplets. They trickled on to his lips, and he tasted them with his tongue, yet all the while he remained absorbed in a fearful trance. He did not wish to return to such a waking world, a world that contained those almighty perils of the sea. He wanted to dwell within that weird spell for eternity, never to reacquaint himself with life and all its tortures. Especially after observing such an abominable horror.
He was not sure whether he was actually looking at the snapped tiller and stern post, or if it were a part of his feverish imagination. The spumous wave had been the mightiest he had ever encountered, and the most deadly. He wanted the whole episode to have been a hallucinogenic dream, spawned from his fertile mind. This he could not bring himself to believe, no matter how hard he tried. The cruel events had been too real. The colourful seascape that lay beyond his vision did not seem to be there. It appeared to be a portion of another planet, a place where he so desperately wished to be at that particular point in time. Yet reality beckoned, inciting him to return to the living world, to escape from the traumatic aftershock and grasp the enormous significance of the situation. His two sea-faring colleagues had been taken by that insidious Galodni Sea.

The day had begun like any other. Life was so predictable in that small fishing community, so much so that Cheslav could almost spend the entirety of his existence blind-folded, and it would make not the tiniest difference. Hungry seagulls cawed harshly as the three of them set off from the mainland at an ungodly hour, the ocean producing a slight ruffling of waves at that time, as if the briny itself was still sleeping. Cheslav yawned incessantly, as he lazily performed the familiar motions he knew so well, the labours of his trade.
"I think we'll have a good catch today," said old Egor, "I can almost smell it in the air."
Cheslav believed him. He trusted every word the experienced mentor uttered, treating his wisdom as some maritime gospel. Egor had been riding the cold waves long before he had been born, and it showed. His wrinkled features seemed as icy as the water itself, his whole face taking on a strange oceanic countenance, as though he were a mysterious sea-god. He was like the father Cheslav never knew -- the father he himself yearned to become one day.
"There are just two things I look forward to each day," said Stanko, the third member of the crew, "the smell of the sea, and the smell of a woman. Ha ha!"
Egor turned Cheslav's way with a sly smile. "Take no notice, son. You look after that bonny young wife of yours. Ignore Stanko and his philanderous ways."
Cheslav always heeded Egor's words, but this time he did not require such advice, for he was conscious of Stanko's reputation. He was akin to a rampant animal on everlasting heat, and preyed lasciviously on the females of the small fishing village. His handsome features they found impossible to resist, and Cheslav was surprised that no father had visited him in fury with daughter in tow, claiming some paternal rights. The rumours were that Stanko was infertile and thus unable to produce a child. Cheslav did not envy his colleague for this.
The hours passed peacefully, save for the foam-filled waters of the cold sea, which were infamously treacherous. Snippets of idle conversation were exchanged by the trio of mariners. In most cases the words were meaningless, a mere method to cut the awkward silence that surrounded them. The fishing vessel Krasivi was a meagre craft, designed and constructed from the barest means. Indeed it was the only boat that Egor could afford, and he seemed to have owned it since the dawning of time.
The further they journeyed out to sea the more fierce the waves became. The volatile ripples sounded similar to hands slapping cold flesh, and were as fervent as a passionate woman's kisses. The sky was darkening with winter clouds, and they feared a voracious rainfall, but it never arrived. They were secretly grateful for that, because those freezing showers that fell upon the Galodni were as icy as the flesh of a dozen cadavers.
Exposed to the frosty air, they continued about their business, netting a healthy amount of sea creatures. Cheslav was accustomed to the smell, and he observed the wet, wriggling fish dancing until breathless. Life transformed into death. He considered this with more poignancy of thought than usual. His intentions were of an opposing nature, for he wished to actually create a life, to bring a child into the world. Merely by chance, Stanko happened to touch on this subject in conversation.
"So how is that lovely wife of yours, Cheslav?" he enquired, as he forcefully steered the tiller at the stern of the Krasivi.
Cheslav's back was aching with the exhausting labour, and he adopted an upright position in order to reply. The coldness of an ocean breeze caught him in the face, and he welcomed the freshness upon his perspiring features.
"She's fine," he answered, with elements of a certain doubt lurking behind the statement.
"She is not with child yet?" asked Egor.
The nerve that the old timer hit seemed to snap like a thin twig. Cheslav did not really wish to discuss this with his two workmates, it was a private matter between him and his wife Inessa. It was also a sore point.
"Not yet," he replied, and left it at that.
He envied Egor with all his heart, for the old sea-dog had seven children and twelve grandchildren, and doted upon them all. Despite this he appeared as if he possessed all the troubles and woes the world could offer. He had stringy white hair and a haggard expression, his eyes as feeble as a newborn kitten's, and he resembled an ancient mariner in that weather-beaten mackintosh and those dirty galoshes he always wore. Yet Cheslav detected a happiness in his work, and in his leisure time -- a happiness in his life. The old man seemed to be most content when either at sea or in the company of his family. He had the utmost respect and admiration for Egor.
They carried on with the infantile banter, not daring to dwell on any meaningful subjects, in order to keep their minds fully on the task in hand. As Egor had predicted, it was proving to be a good day, the strength and pungency of the fish-stink emphasising this point. Cheslav was inwardly delighted. He envisaged the rare luxury of a pint of beer if this good fortune persisted.
Then suddenly the mild breeze transformed into a more violent wind, as cold as the most gigantic glacier. The ubiquitous Galodni appeared to bear a frightful malevolence, to take on a life of its own. The lapping waves increased in size, to undulate in a more vicious fashion. The odour of the catch was overwhelmed by the strange smell of the thickening atmosphere. Cheslav viewed his own skin, which was turning to a cold moon-white colour, filled with an unpleasant iciness. The chill became unbearable.
Then suddenly the boat began to lurch uncontrollably, and Cheslav's initial fear was that it was going to capsize and drag the three of them down into the dark depths of the
Galodni. The water started to swirl and eddy with enormous venom, as if a giant sea-monster were encircling the Krasivi beneath the raging foam. Cheslav was thrown unceremoniously into the foetid collection of squirming fish, and tried desperately to climb from out of that netting. Such was his concentration on freeing himself, he was taken completely unawares by the appearance of the ferocious wave.
At first he thought it must have been some crazy beast of the ocean, as it leapt from beneath the icy surface and hurtled in the direction of the boat's stern. It was perhaps twenty feet in height and totally awesome, a gleaming, foaming wall of saltwater. He had never witnessed a wave so immense, and gaped in horror as it swept over the vessel with an almighty rush.
A fearful cry of terror escaped from Stanko's lips as he was carried overboard by the monstrous force of the wave. He grabbed a hold of the tiller, clinging on to it with all his might, but it was futile, for the fantastic water-wall was akin to a huge, lashing beast, and much superior in strength to Stanko. He disappeared with a deafening splash into the greenish-blue waters of the Galodni, taken by the strange wave, and yelling incomprehensible words as the spray gushed around him.
Cheslav glanced in Egor's direction, as if searching the old mate's face for some understanding, some explanation of what had just occurred. He was met with a chilling blankness, for his colleague seemed to be in a similar state of complete shock and awe. Then suddenly Egor sprang to life, and scrambled from his bow position across the soaking deck, the Krasivi still rocking and teetering as he reached the broken tiller and stern post, which had been snapped by the incredible force of the wave. Cheslav was amazed upon observing the aged sea-devil as he jumped into the cold water in a brave attempt to rescue Stanko. All this was performed without a word, almost as though Egor were under some weird spell or trance.
Cheslav clambered to his feet to view what was taking place amidst that swirling spume. There was no further sign of Stanko, and he guessed that he had suffered a horrible drowning death, sucked beneath the freezing surface for eternity. Egor was desperately splashing around in the water, his black mackintosh contrasting greatly with the ugly blue-green foam. Then Cheslav was aghast to notice that the sinister wave was returning, swiftly making its way toward Egor, who was unsuspecting of its approach. He shouted to his mentor, but his words were not heard, and the giant wave leapt upwards once more, a massive, yawning mound of water. It swept over Egor, engulfing him in its deadly maw, and then it rolled across the Galodni and away from the craft, taking the old man with it.
A remarkable calmness began to settle around the Krasivi, and Cheslav was left to reflect on the uncanny events that had just taken place. He was overcome with nervous fright, and he gazed into the far distance, hoping to catch some small glimpse of Egor, but he was not to be seen. It was a clear morning, and he was able to observe other fishing vessels, half a league into the distance, he guessed. Surely they must have seen what had happened, the gigantic wave and all. He expected them to begin making their way toward the Krasivi, to offer some kind of assistance, but they remained still and motionless, like sea vessels in a painting.
As the strange silence prevailed, he felt an awful sickness and nausea, and his mind was swarming with confused thoughts and hideous memories of the dreadful drowning incidents. He imagined the monster wave to be some form of macabre entity, spawned from the mad spirit of the ocean. He was filled with such torment and chaos his head started to spin, and he collapsed to the wet deck in a weakened, soaking heap. Stanko's plaintive yells reverberated inside his mind as he became faint and drifted into unconsciousness, overwhelmed by the atrocious and maddening occurrence.

As he lay inactive and sleeping on that drenched deck, his mind conjured up lurid images of his wife Inessa. Her beauty, her elegance, her charm -- all was there to behold, and he reached out to grasp her loveliness, to hold her in his arms, to undress her and make love to her. And it was at that point that the dream became less pleasant, and more chilling and disturbing.
"No, Cheslav," she said, pushing him off with her slender hands, "we mustn't. Think of the consequences."
This displeased him, and he then realised that these images were more than pictures in a dream, they were recollections, memories of real events. His subconscious mind was recreating the past, for some unexplained reason. The words she spoke, the manner of her dress, the way she smelled. It appeared to be a strange replay of that very morning, occurring during his troubled unconsciousness.
"We're both young and healthy, Inessa," he pleaded, "and we are so in love. It's only right that we should produce a child."
She turned away with arms folded in silent defiance, and Cheslav knew what that action signified. He knew only too well.
The tiny fishing village in which they lived was rife with poverty, families struggling to
survive on the cold outskirts of starving Russia. The spirit was there, the will to carry on and to persevere, to chuckle in the face of famine and disease. He and Inessa barely had sufficient income to eat and wash and clothe themselves, and to keep a roof over their heads. Her argument was that to give birth to a child would be cruel, both to them and to the infant, for they would not be able to provide for the newborn. Cheslav was ravaged with frustration.
"Please, Inessa," he begged, "you know how much this means to me."
Indeed. He had hardly known his own father, for at the age of three he had perished in death, taken by the malevolent plague that was sweeping the northern region at that time. His memories of him were quite vague, the most vivid being the ghastly, emaciated figure lying prone upon a bed of dirtied sheets, doomed eyes glaring his way and wrinkled flesh hanging loosely on his stricken face. He vowed that with him things would be different, and that his child would grow up in the company of a healthy, nourished father. Yet Inessa was not in compliance with his dream.
"Let's wait a while, Cheslav," said Inessa finally.
It seemed that all he ever did was wait. He wanted a child as soon as possible, he wanted a child now. It was all he had ever wished for, and the moment he first set eyes on Inessa and observed her outstanding attractiveness he knew that she was the one. The would-be mother of his children. His loins were practically aching and begging to produce a life, he could almost feel a pain down there, an uncanny longing for reproduction.
He could hear Inessa speaking once more, but the words were jumbled and incoherent, as if she were conversing in some foreign tongue. His head was dizzy, he was feeling drowsy, and he could feel a strange wetness beneath him. Then her voice disappeared, and he recognised the distinctive sounds of lapping waters, and realised, despite his torpid state, that he was aboard the Krasivi. He looked up, and glanced around, and then he remembered -- the gruesome horror of it all came back to him.
The strong odour of the catch hit him first of all. He looked around, and discovered that he was alone aboard that vessel, and this filled him with both fear and confusion. The horrid events had not been a part of his dream. They had actually occurred, the absence of Egor and Stanko proving that this was true. He gazed in a forlorn fashion into the distance, and found he could make out the Russian coastline, as bleak as a cold
midwinter, the smoking chimneys and the masts of the boats in the harbour, the rigging like tiny cobwebs. He wondered what Inesssa was doing. He could not wait to be with her once more.
He recalled the dreadful moments vividly, casting his weary mind back, picturing the giant wave and the terror it had created. Egor's impetuous actions had astounded him, the way he bounded across the deck and leapt into the icy-cold sea, apparently without any thought of the consequences, of the awful fate that he himself might suffer. Cheslav considered this to be incredibly courageous, and wondered if, under different circumstances, the old timer would have performed such heroics to save him from a savage sea-death. His conclusion was that he would have done so, of that there seemed not an ounce of doubt.
He shivered as the ocean breeze swept past him, as though it were whistling a fearful tune, for his ears only. The astonishing silence was unnerving and frightful, and it suddenly became colder than his trembling flesh could bear. The Krasivi started to move from side to side, to sway and lurch, as if the Galodni were rocking him not to sleep, but to death. This caused him to shudder even more, and his heart beat more quickly as he anticipated the dreaded return of that fatal ocean monster -- that grotesque and sinister wave.
He observed the tumultuous waters as the boat was carried upon a bed of fierce ripples, and before he could even scream out in horror it came -- the wave of death. He clung to the netting, surrounded by a vast swamp of foetid fish, holding on with all his strength, holding on for his life. He saw the wave erupt from the ocean, and he became spellbound. It appeared even more fantastic than before, as it soared into the wind and cascaded over the soaked deck. It was so strong it sliced the heavy mast just below the maintop, as easily as a knife through cheese, sending the broken timber crashing on to the deck, and Cheslav wondered what such an impressive force would do to the flesh and bone of a man.
He attempted to scramble to safety, wherever that safety could be found, but he was confounded, for within seconds the wave appeared again. It emerged from the briny like a massive behemoth, accompanied by a loud splashing sound, almost like the roar of a lioness, and dropped over the boat once more, this time snatching the pitiful fisherman and forcing him into the water -- into the icy depths of the fearsome Galodni ocean.
His mind was swarming in turmoil, his thoughts unclear, his sole intention being to
escape the clutches of the wave and return to the security of the drenched and damaged Krasivi. This was not a simple task, for he felt himself being pulled deeper into the sea, into the cloudy waters, surrounded by the spume and the cold and the heart of the turbulent wave. He choked and spluttered, compelled to swallow unholy amounts of foul-tasting saltwater, as he tried desperately to resist the pull of the ocean.
His efforts were proving to be fruitless -- and things became more scary when he detected the strange voice.
"My name is Ran," were the words he heard, "the Mother of all Waves."
He was bewildered. To begin with he thought he had imagined those words as he struggled to hold on to his existence, to escape the grip of oncoming death. But then the voice returned.
"Allow me to introduce my daughters, all nine of them. As fertile as the most nubile human female!"
Cheslav was confused, and endeavoured to ignore the statement, for he did not comprehend those words. His suffering was of a more vital nature. Then to his amazement he felt something tugging at his trousers, unbuckling the belt around his waist. He glanced downwards, and could see nothing, much to his dismay. Yet he was able to feel it, as if several small hands were pulling down his pants, and fondling his genitals. He looked more carefully, searching for the daughters the voice had mentioned, but all he could see was a series of weird underwater ripples, strange foam-shapes bearing hideous smiles and fabulous eyes. He looked upwards to the surface. It was mere feet from him, yet it seemed so far away, so distant. And upon that surface was a collection of small, swirling waves. Cheslav did not count them, but there were nine -- the nine daughters of Ran.
"Your two companions were unsuitable," continued the Mother of the Waves, "one was too old, and the other infertile. But you seem to be the one. The one we've been searching for."
He did not wish to believe the words inside his head, which seemed to be transmitted telepathically from some unspeakable source, presumably the large wave itself. But this is preposterous, he thought. Yet even more preposterous was the magical feeling below his waist, as his exposed genital area was gently coaxed to life, and before he could even begin to understand what was taking place his seed squirted into the water, causing an eerie sensation throughout his entire body.
Following that mysterious event, the flame within his aching soul began to flicker and wane, as he swallowed more and more of the bilious Galodni waters. He appeared to be breathing in everything except the precious air he so badly required, and as a result of this he started to succumb to the horrendous fate that the giant wave had threatened from the moment it -- or she -- had arrived on the scene. And in the end his lifeless form sank slowly into the pit of the ocean, whilst the nine daughters of Ran wallowed in the seed his loins had provided.

Hundreds of little waves surrounded the silent and deserted Krasivi, rippling gently, rising and falling to a soft rhythm, all in harmony with the flow of the sea itself. There seemed to be a strange ebullience there, an atmosphere similar to a boisterous playground filled with effervescent children. The cool breeze appeared to be whistling a tune of joy and exultation, as though in celebration of some wondrous event. And as those small waves enjoyed the freedom of the ocean, another wave a thousand times larger lingered close by, as content as a cat that had licked up all the cream in the dairy.
"My grandchildren," said Ran in a mellow and subdued tone.

Deep below the cold surface of the mystical Galodni Sea, three fresh corpses lay upon that dusty bed, destined to decay until all the flesh had rotted and festered away. Then they would become figures of mere bone, to join the hundreds of skeletons that already littered that awesome, noiseless place. And one of them, the one formerly known as Cheslav, displayed a wide smile, a grin of both satisfaction and strange happiness -- as a father would smile at the sight of his newborn.