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MELUSINE REVISITING
  by Gay Bost
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  The birds had alerted him to what lay on the beach. Sea gulls
swooped and landed, only to rise, screaming, for the beach. He'd
left his glasses on the hood of the pickup and didn't care to go back
for them. He didn't really need them to see. They were for distance.
He'd bridge the span between what lay on the beach and himself soon
enough; an elongated lump of something, seaweed covered, more than
likely a dead seal. But the sea gulls didn't so much fight over the
spoils as fuss and announce to each other, in excited voices, that
something special was there. He likened the sound patterns to those
they made on days he scattered potato peels from the catwalk of the
lighthouse.

  As he neared it he thought the seal might be alive. The
gulls danced around the body and chattered at it. He could imagine them
encouraging it to go home. The closer he got, though, the less sure he
was of his impressions. Whatever it was seemed to be partially wrapped
in a dark coat or blanket. "Dead body," he thought, "Junkie or victim of
life gone sour." It happened, if the tide was just right.

  His dread rose like bile, threatening to choke him. There'd
be the sheriff's office and the county coroner tracking up and down
the beach, banging on his door for coffee and answers he couldn't
possibly have. He wasn't fond of the new sheriff, great hulking oaf
with tobacco wadded into his cheek, constantly casting about, looking
for somewhere to spit. Not in his lighthouse.

  He stood over it and looked down, vision half clouded by the
thought of inquiries. They always brought a rash of questions about
a man who preferred to spend his time alone with books and machinery.
Like some bell going off in the heads of widows, divorcees and
spinsters, they'd remember, the women would, that there was a man,
alone, in dire need of baked goods and solace.

  "Now look what you've done," he accused the body. He squatted,
sitting on his heals, talking to the thing. Sand matted hair glittered
in the morning sun. It was, indeed, wrapped in a blanket, or the thing
was tied on somehow, a lightweight shawl sort of thing with bedraggled
fringe. Seaweed had woven itself through arms and around feet, wreathed
itself around the neck. He reached over and pulled on the covering,
rolling the body onto its back. Female, then. The blanket covered most
of her, seaweed the rest, but the unmistakable swell of breasts beneath
told him gender. He brushed the hair away from the face and tilted his
head.

  "Indeterminate age," he pronounced. He looked more closely at
the inside of one arm. No needle tracks. "Who knows," he said to it,
her. "Was life a bit too much for you, then?"

  The fingers curled, loosely, weakly.

  The shock set him back and toppled him onto the sand. He
caught himself on both hands, set behind him into the harsh grains.
He stared at the fingers. They curled a bit more, the hand moving a
fraction of an inch. He scrabbled forward and lifted her at the
shoulders, peeled back one eyelid. Blue gray and very much alive, it
focused on him as if she hadn't the strength to open it herself, but
now that someone else ad she could see. She blinked.

  He felt for a her pulse at her throat, wanting to know how
weak she might be, whether to call an ambulance or get her up himself.
She blinked again, tears rolling from her eyes. Her heart beat strongly,
though it seemed rather slow.

  "Well you're alive," he said. "Did you want to be?"

  She tried to speak. He could feel a spasm beneath his supporting
arm. He rolled her onto her side, though he thought she must have lost
most of the sea water while she was on her stomach. A patch of slickly
gleaming something lay on the sand where her face had been.

  "Well, shall we dance?"  he asked, standing. He thought he saw her
torso shaking as he bent to lift her, seaweed, blanket and all. "I'll
lead."

  He felt her laugh, then, a quivering, pitiful laugh released
to rattle through what must be a very painful throat. She'd taken
water into her lungs and kept it. Pneumonia would probably follow
her survival.

  The gulls scolded him, running alongside, screaming at him
from the air, hovering as he took her back to his world and out of
theirs. "You've made friends and influenced people in your stay here,"
he told her, looking into her face. "I don't suppose you'll get any
lighter as we go along, though."  She'd already acquired ten pounds.

  His arms ached by the time he got her to the pickup and set
her on the tailgate. He propped her there against a barrel and went
into the shed, seeking an old coffee cup he knew was there, and water.

  He returned to find her head slumped forward onto her chest, the
fingers of one hand tangled in seaweed. He lifted her chin with one
hand and put the cup to her lips, carefully tilting and wetting her
mouth. He eyes flew open. She had decided she would live, it seemed.
She sipped, slowly, licking her cracked lips often, stopping to
swallow in obvious pain, sipping again.

  "I'll call into town and get you some help," he told her when she
seemed revived enough to hold herself erect and help him hold the cup.

  Her fingers racked across the back of his hand, and "No," she
whispered harshly. "No."  She frowned. He looked into the eyes so
like a cold morning sea seen at a distance. She didn't plead. She
didn't beg. She instructed. 'No'.

  His own brow furrowed, multiple lines in his high forehead. "Hmm,"
was all he said. She finished the cup of water, looking over its edge
at him, sip after slow sip, seeming to know what she was about.
"Shall I call a cab for you, then?"  he inquired.

  She tried to clear her throat, undoubtedly ready with a
scathing remark, but winced, instead. She sighed, an ironic little
smile shaping her lips. He nodded.

  "I'll get you some clothes. You seem to have ruined your gown."

  The smile grew.

  He shook his head and turned toward the lighthouse.

  "Towel," she croaked, her hand at her throat. She was picking
sea weed from her blanket wrap with the other.

  "But of course."  Fortunately he kept a set of work clothes in the
cabinet just inside the door. Unfortunately, there were no towels. The
bathroom was in his living quarters one level up. He hadn't realized
how much the burdened trek back up the beach had cost his legs until
he took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the first landing and
massaged his calves, thinking, wondering if he'd lost his mind. He
fully intended to deposit the woman on the cot he kept in the control
room, fully intended to drag it down from that elevation and ensconce
her in his living quarters. But not until she'd shed some of her
dirt. That being his main concern, he filled a plastic bucket with
warm water from the kitchen sink while he went to get the towel.

  She'd managed to loose most of the larger strands of seaweed. They
littered the tailgate. She'd pulled her hair out of her face and
tucked some of the matted strands behind her ears. She'd also untied
or otherwise unfastened the blanket. She had been, of course, quite
naked beneath it. He looked away, watching his feet, watching the
water steam and slosh in t he bucket. He hadn't expected to come back
and find her sitting primly in lace and woolen skirts, but the sight
of her sitting upright, shoulders squared, healthy chest bared ass he
brushed sand from herself, stirred him. It was the shock, of course.
That, or nights dreaming of a woman coming to him from the sea. He
lifted the bucket onto the tailgate and handed her the towel, pointedly
looking at her face.

  She extended her hand to him, palm down, expecting something
his mind could not, at present deal with. He looked at the hand. She
rolled her eyes, a sign her interpreted as exasperation, and took hold
of his forearm, jiggling forward to get down from her perch. The jiggling
didn't help. She jiggled quite nicely. He assisted her, then, her hand
grasping his arm tightly, depending on him to support her weight as she
dismounted. She stood, braced against the edge of the tailgate, firm
thighs suddenly long and shapely, the blanket abandoned totally.

  She lifted her face and croaked, her voice sounding a
bit stronger, "Will you play mother?"

  "What?"  He was at a loss.

  "Pour," she instructed, stretching her neck and tilting her
head upward.

  "Of course. Sorry."  Lifting the bucket he doused her with half
the contents, watching her move her hands swiftly over her body. She
turned, then, presenting him with a previously unseen view. There
were marks on her back, a waffling, as if she'd lain on some kind of
grate and been bruised just beneath the skin. He poured again,
watching the muscles in her back move as she lifted her arms and ran
her hands through her hair. She picked the drop splattered towel up
and applied it to her hair. He warred with himself, then, wanting
desperately to watch her jiggle from the front and needing very much
not to take his eyes from the view of her rear.

  "You've been injured," he managed to say, swallowing suddenly
and discovering he hadn't done that in a while.

  "You should see the other guy," she said. She turned and handed
him the towel, plucking the shirt he had brought off of his shoulder
where he'd draped it. She buttoned it with trembling fingers, obviously
at her end. "Now what?"  Each time she spoke she swallowed hard and
winced.

  "Breakfast, madam?"  he asked, recovering, extending his arm in a
gentlemanly manner.

  "Coffee?"  Surprised at her tone, he angled his head to look into
her face. There had been a desperate plea in that voice.

  "Pots and pots of it," he assured her. "And only one flight of
stairs."

  She groaned and stepped away from the tailgate. Her knees buckled.
He caught her, an arm wrapped around her waist, tightly. She smiled,
ruefully, up at him.

  He found himself gazing into her eyes, aware of her having spoken,
but lost as to what she'd asked. She waited, expectant. She winced as
she prepared to repeat her question. "Bathroom?"  she prompted.

  "Ah," he exclaimed and supplied the information.

  She rose slowly, but on her own, and left the table. A cup of coffee,
steaming, sat before her next a nibbled piece of toast. He looked at
his own cup, held tightly between both hands, and swallowed audibly.
He didn't remember coming up the stairs, pouring coffee, making toast,
or seating her at the table. The cup in his own hands was half full.
He stared into it as if the lost time would be revealed to him within
it's depths. She took sugar, no cream. Or she had, today, for the
energy. There was a hard lump in his throat.

  Behind him the bathroom door closed. In the silence he heard the
light switch being flipped. The shower door creaked open and the
water began to beat against the enclosure walls. He remained still,
hearing everything. There was a sense of waiting, a calm before a
storm, perhaps, but unlike any he had known before. He had a sudden
urge to bolt up the stairs to the watch room and scan the weather
reports. He felt certain something should be happening, something was
missing.

  She seemed to take an unusual amount of time in the shower. He grew
concerned that she had passed out. He thought he would go to the door
and call to her, but found himself unable to do so, unable to do
little more than stare into his coffee, waiting. He occupied himself
with thoughts of work, of routine chores awaiting his attention, of
logging in to the forecast channels, of storm clouds rolling in from
the west the night before. Yes, that was why he had been prowling the
beach; looking for storm wrack. It seemed he had found it.

  Suddenly, without forewarning, her hand was on his shoulder.
The sense of waiting lifted. With the speed of a summer squall the
swiftness of lightening striking a silent headland, he found himself
with an erection. The hand upon his shoulder applied pressure, as
she stopped to catch her breath. The muscles in his back stiffened, a
steel hard response to her need. The moment passed. Her hand lifted
and she moved to the chair, collapsing into it with a self satisfied
grin.

  She shared her triumph with him as guilelessly as a child. In
her hand she held a comb, one she had found in the bathroom. Her face
glowed softly, clean. Her tangled mass of hair hung down the back of
her neck, soaking the shirt. Her arms lifted to her head, throwing
her breasts into relief inside the shirt. He swallowed, again,
knowing he had to get away from her before he revealed his own need.

  He rose, mumbling, "I have work."

  She stopped her struggles with her hair and held the comb
out to him, eyes gently pleading.

  "All right," he assented, taking the comb from her and going
round behind her. She'd made the mess worse, washing it, more than
likely scrubbing at it with vigorous movements. He closed his eyes
and imagined her doing that, breasts uplifted and jiggling with the
movement, all the while his hands touching her damp hair, dragging
the comb through the tangles. She sat patiently, enduring his inexpert
touch, her head bent forward. The ends had begun to dry and curl by
the time he'd finished, yet he continued. At last her hand came up
and found his, stopping him, gently.

  "Long time," she whispered, the harshness of her voice beginning
to smooth out.

  "Yes," he answered. "A long time."  He tossed the comb onto the
table. "I'll bring a cot down in a little while. There's a bed just
the other side of the bathroom. Get some rest. I'll wake you."

  "Thank you," she said, turning to look up at him. She looked like
she would say more, but thought better of it. At his nod she turned
back to the table, picked up the cold toast and began nibbling at the
edges.

  He set the coffee pot on the table before he left, knowing she
was still too weak for unnecessary activity. The shower had exhausted
her. "You clean up nice," he offered over his shoulder.

                               *  *  *

  She dreamt strange dreams and woke with a start, a cold sweat
stinging in the scratches on her back. She rose stiffly, wondering if
there was, at least, one muscle that hadn't been strained in her ordeal.
There were thick drapes on one wall, tiny slashes of light breaking
through where the fabric was worn. She wanted sunlight, wanted the day
to warm her, wanted . . . . She parted the drapes and found herself
looking at the sea through a window which occupied most of the wall.

  "It's a lighthouse," she reminded herself, and wondered what a
lighthouse keeper did. Surely there were electronics and mechanics
to operate the light. There must be a control room of some kind. She
imagined something like the bridge of a great ship. She knew nothing
of the area, knew nothing of fishing fleets or pleasure craft, nothing
of the people who lived this life. She barely knew the sea from which
she had come. There was a taste to it, an oiliness she found
repugnant. The gulls, though, she felt she knew. She smiled at their
eternal antics.

  The tide was coming in. Something below had attracted their
interest, their avarice, some morsel the oceans had tossed up for their
amusement and now threatened to take back. A dead fish, perhaps, washed
forward to tantalize them, to test their agility and intelligence. She
felt the sea did that, especially to its inhabitants. There was a long
history of such.

  The room itself drew her interest. Books lined one wall, neatly
arranged, their bindings even with the edges of the shelves. A set
here, their even color and size somehow reassuring compared to the
riot of color and diversity of sizes displayed elsewhere. A small
desk, a comfortable chair, a table with a lamp and various personal
items scattered about its surface. The kitchen and bath had been
spartan, practical. Here, in his sanctum, were the signs of his
presence.

  She thought of his hands in her hair, the steady strength in
his arms and the consideration he had shown a stranger. Lonely,
perhaps. Lonely enough to risk the invasion of his sanctum? And then
she remembered the humor. She chuckled. Dance, indeed! She crawled back
into the bed, snuggling into his pillow, wondering what his dreams held,
what essence had soaked into the soft downy feathers beneath her own
head.

                               *  *  *

  Damned if she hadn't stripped! The shirt he'd loaned lay at
the end of the bed. She'd mussed his covers and pulled them loose
at the foot. Her hair spread out over his pillow, half covering her
sleeping face. She slept restless, evidently, sheets twisted and tucked,
a corner grasped in long fingers.

  He stood in the doorway, the cot folded and tucked under his
arm. It seemed a ludicrous thing of canvas and wood, odd angles drawn
together, poised to attack the floor space that was chosen for it. He
set it against the wall, meaning to put it up in the kitchen later.
He wished he had the key to Rob's room, then. He'd let her sleep in
his relief's bed and ruin his covers. The cot seemed so small
considering the way she'd sprawled and turned in the bed. He doubted
she'd be able to stay on the smaller piece of furniture.

  There'd been an advisory, a tropical depression threatened to
come ashore in the south, scattering its tempers along the coast to
invade his domain. He wanted his bed. He would be up most of the night
and he wanted his bed, now, for a nap. He watched her breathing,
watched the curve of hip and leg beneath the sheets from across the
room. He'd feed her, again. Cook something nutritious and wake her.
Soup. A hearty stock with meat and vegetables. He thought there might
be something made up in the freezer. A chowder. Yes. And yet he stood,
watching her breathe, her shapely arm stretched out, the long fingers
curled in dream, grasping at who-knew-what. She drew a knee up in her
slumbers, tucking it into her stomach. The resultant curve sent his
pulse racing. Damned if she hadn't stripped! He turned and nearly
walked into the door facing, demanding of himself, "Soup!"

  The rattling of pans would wake her, the smell of food draw
her from the room and save him the turmoil of bending over her as
she slept. He rattled and dropped, cussed severely in his agitation,
banging spoons and plates, envisioning her coming to the door, rushing
naked into the kitchen to see what was the matter. Instead, a drowsy
eyed face peered round the door, disappeared only to return, frowning.
A moment later she came out, the shirt buttoned to the throat.

  She went to the sink and turned the tap, getting herself a drink
of water, filling the mug she had used earlier and leaning against
the counter to watch him, silent.

  "There's a storm coming up coast," he said, standing at the
stove, banging a metal spoon against the interior of a metal pot.

  "I see that," she said, smiling. Her voice was a throaty velvet,
a lilt of laughter barely concealed. He felt flush. "Tonight?" she
asked, holding his eyes.

  "If it moves as predicted."

  "Who predicts the storms here?"

  Something in her question disturbed him. He scowled. "The National
Weather Service, of course."

  "Ah, I see."  She sipped at her water, looking every bit as if she
didn't see, at all. She took a seat at the table, sliding the chair
across the floor without scraping it.

  He left the spoon to rest on the counter, wiped his right hand
on his pant leg and extended it to her, "I don't believe we've been
formally introduced," he said. "Ethan Quarrels, at your service."

  "Melusine," she returned, lacing her fingertips in his palm,
touching the inside of her thumb to the back of his fingers in a way
he found both disturbing and highly sensual.

  "A stage name?" he asked, smiling slyly.

  "Pardon me?" She looked up at him with genuine perplexity.

  "The name: Melusine. Is that a stage name?"

  "No."

  He felt a chill sweep across his shoulders as he attempted to look
deeper into her sea gray eyes. He could have sworn they had been blue
that morning. "There's soup and then I'm to bed. I've brought a cot
down for you."

  "Yes, I saw it. Thank you."

  He returned to the stove, dishing up their meal, feeling something
trying to dig itself free from his memory. Her presence, her quiet
regard seemed to prevent that.

  "Thank you, Ethan," she said, smiling, as he set the bowls on the
table and handed her a spoon.

                               *  *  *

  He stood on the catwalk, listening to the ever present pulse of
the sea, its life a promise. A solid bank of fog stood offshore 5000
yards or so, more a wall of security than a threat. He'd walked this
way a thousand times, a thousand nights, just so. That fog bank never
came any nearer. A slight chill alerted him to the fact that he was
naked, the cold metal railing a line of ice just below his right knee.
Something flashed along the shoreline. A familiar warmth spread
through his loins. She was coming. The flash was Her pendant, silver
nestled between ample breasts, bobbing as She drifted above the sands
toward the lighthouse.

  He knew Her face, knew ever line, every contour, every tiny
smile and frown wrinkle. He knew the scent of Her hair, the taste of
Her lips, the dewy honey texture of Her love. She came to him often,
here, in the dark, drawn to him, drawn to the lighthouse, by his need.
He was often alone, but never lonely, until he walked the catwalk. The
She would come. In eager anticipation he watched Her. She would look
up, soon, and see him. She would smile, brush the hair back from Her
forehead and crane Her neck as She blew a kiss up to him.

  And then She would run. His excitement would mount as She
slammed the door open, in Her haste leaving it open. He would run to
his room, fling the door open and find Her there, waiting, her arms
held out for him, Her thighs parted, Her own desire glistening in the
fog misted moonlight as it seeped in through the observation window.
He thought, tonight, he would run ahead of Her, not wait for Her to
look up. He left the surety of the rail and made his way back to his
bed, smoothing the sheets, laying himself upon them, his erection held
loosely in his fingers. Any minute She would come through the door. She
might laugh at him, but She would come. She might tease him over his
anxious behavior, but She would hold her arms out to him and drawn him
into Her depths.

  He stroked himself, once, just as the door came open. She
stood, long dark hair still adrift in the wind of Her movement,
laughing. Her eyes shone with a memory of the moon, delighted. Full
breasts rose and fell with Her breaths. Her creamy thighs whispered
passionate promises as She walked across the floor.

  Something jarred him. Something was wrong. He sat up, his
fingers still curled around his manhood. She'd never touched the
floor before! She smiled, strangely, unfamiliar curves giving an
impish character to the face. A face subtly changed. She came to stand
at the foot of the bed, body contours changed. She licked her lips,
breathing deeply through flared nostrils. She watched him, Her dark
eyes, too light, drawn to his hand, the hardness within it. They rose
to meet his, a question She had never asked before. He blinked, once,
twice, trying to get Her back into focus. She should flow to him, her
love a sweet fluid to quench his thirst. Instead his mouth was dry.

  His fingers curled more tightly, stroking slowly.

  "Long time," She whispered, drifting to the window, staring into
the fog.

  "No," he said, not liking the conversation. "Come to bed. Come
away from the window."

  "There is a castle," She whispered. "I thought this was a
castle." She turned from the window, Her back against the glass,
Her form outlined by moonlight and the eternal fog bank. "Too long?"
She asked. "What have you done with the sun?"  She came to the bed
then, stood beside him, reached to touch the back of his hand as it
moved up and down. She leaned to kiss his brow, whispering something
he couldn't quite hear against his temple.

                               *  *  *

  "What?"

  "I said `the fog is rolling in fast'". Melusine stood in the open
doorway, her hair a wild halo of light against the brighter light of
the kitchen behind her.

  Guiltily, he looked down his own length, relieved to find himself
covered. "All right. I'll be right out."

  The door closed behind her. He stared at the solid rectangle, the
memory of a dream gone awry fading swiftly. He exhaled a breath he
hadn't realized he'd been holding and looked at the shrouded remnants
of an afternoon sun as it grew dimmer. He had no time to wonder why
his mouth was so dry, no time to think about the visitor he had taken
from the beach that morning, no time to dwell upon the unrelieved
tension which lived in his groin. On automatic reflex he dressed,
left the dream, left the room, left the strange taste of change behind
to tend to his job.

  Melusine sat on the edge of her cot, bare legs dangling comically
from the wooden bar rail. Her toes buffed the floor in little circles.
He paused briefly in his rush to tell her she could come up and watch
the operation if she had a mind, later, if she felt strong enough. She
smiled a weary little smile and nodded. The was an indefinable sadness
about her, but he had no time for that, either.

  The radio was chattering ceaselessly. Of course some fool had gone
out, gambling against the predictions, gambling against the storm, the
fog, the sea. His light, a beacon reaching deep into the gloom strobed
far past the boat's location, a visual guide for fools who took their
navigation lessons too lightly, forgetting where the land was. The Coast
Guard was on this one. It was early. Much later and this lost wanderer
would be left to drift while those in greater need and danger were tended
to. They must have been close to his location at the onset. Ethan scanned
the weather reports, the radar feed and the text screens.

  This was his most vital duty. Most lighthouses were fully
automated, requiring only maintenance and repairs. Most keepers were
electricians and general handymen. Many were students and part time
shift workers, the care and feeding of a tradition a mere part of their
daily rounds. But here, on the point, a relay station and weather watch
had been established. Here Ethan's special needs were met, multiple
talents utilized. Here he could recluse 30 days on and 30 days off.

  The storm had decided to remain at sea, keep her tendrils to
herself and spread only temperature variables, creating the fog,
and keeping him at his station through the still night.

  Sometime in the small hours of the morning he was startled by
the rumbling roar of medium sized boulders being ground against each
other. She'd found the elevator. Rarely used, its routine maintenance
was often overlooked. The cables needed greasing, had for months. Its
basic operation was unhindered, but within the upright shaft of the
lighthouse the mechanical objections it made to movement were amplified.
The door opened upon a slightly chagrined woman.

  She'd brought sweet rolls and the coffee pot. She had them and two
coffee cups arranged on a large tray. He rose to help her with them.
"This contraption sounds like an old ship being drug along the deep
reefs!"  she exclaimed. "One of those huge metal rust buckets they
sunk after the naval wars were over."

  He noticed she'd taken some care with her hair, tying portions of
it up and back with kitchen twine. He settled her into an observers
chair and pulled his own nearer, suddenly revisited by the alteration
his dream had taken. Something in the shape of her face, the nature
of her attentive regard. He had almost named the differences to
himself when she spoke.

  "This is all so fascinating," her fingers fluttered like an
injured bird over the panels. "You're not alone at all, here."  Her
delight transformed her, he thought. She was quite pretty. Her lips,
quaked in childlike pleasure, only heightened his awareness of her
charms. She watched the radar sweep, enraptured. "These are the storm
predictors, then?"  She'd used her chin to indicate the screen, the
sleek curve of her neck brought to his attention.

  He'd thought her hair brown, but in the well lit vault of the
observation chamber he found rich wheat-colored highlights. Her skin
was rather pale, but he formed the impression that as the sun darkened
her skin it would lighten her hair. She turned blue green eyes on him
and smiled.

  "Yes, in part," he answered. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm
used to thinking before I speak. Having someone here, asking questions,
expecting a timely answer to a question is a bit of an adjustment for
me."

  "I understand," she said, reaching a hand out to him.

  He looked closely at the long fingers, the neatly paired nails,
the tiny bruises and scratches on the back of the hand. "Do you?" he
wondered aloud. He took the hand, drew his chair nearer to hers and
reached for the other one. One of her knees touched his, bare skin
against twill. He thought, then, of a three pronged plug inserted into
a wall outlet, the invisible force of an unseen generator surging
through the contacts of hands and leg.

  "Do you?"

  Her eyes moved in a slow circle, taking in his face, settling on
his lips. "Yes, I do," she whispered, the hush of a fog cushioned night
seemly part of her speech apparatus. She squeezed his hands, minimally
before releasing them.

  She curled her legs beneath her in the chair, a sudden shift,
like a bird settling into a rocky perch to watch, eyes blinking, head
turning at each flash of light or burst of noise from the radios. The
tails of the shirt covered her thighs in spots and exposed more in
others. He toyed with the idea of fetching her a lap cover and decided
to allow himself the view upon occasion.

  "Am I going to get an explanation of how you came to be washed
up on my beach?" He swiveled round to his keyboard, entering an
inquiry. A prolonged silence drew his attention back to her.

  She seemed suddenly helpless, lost. He considered it might be
an affectation but discarded that idea. Her lower lip twitched, once,
before she answered. "Do you really need one?"

  "Are you an escapee" A criminal? A wanted woman? A wayward wife
gone missing?"

  "I hope not!"  she exclaimed, chuckling. She jiggled, the tails
of the shirt riding up her thighs, slipping loose from where they had
been tucked beneath her.

  "And what am I to do with you? Granted, you don't eat much, but you
don't seem to be able to dance, either."

  "You haven't asked since yesterday, and, at the time, I was a
little worn out from my last partner." She gestured toward the open
sea, invisible beyond the fog.

  The great light stroked the density, silently moving on its well
oiled mechanics. "What shall I do with you?"  he persisted.

  "Are you afraid the townspeople will think you've taken a
sea-bride from the foam? Will they whisper about the lighthouse keeper
and the storm's waif?" Her body attitude was relaxed, her amused smile
conspiratorial in nature, as if they two shared a secret beyond the
ken of those who dwelt away from the constant pulse of the ocean,
wrapped in cozy fires and shielded by the gray light of television,
sheltered from the timeless disturbance of the wave.

  "There is that," he admitted.

  She sighed, a disappointment that he wouldn't, evidently, play the
game she had set for him. "Well, then, I shall be gone when the fog
lifts." She shrugged her shoulders forward in a gesture of dismissal.
"Just think of me as a stray cat come to your door begging fishtails
and milk."

  "One did," he commented, thinking she fit the profile quite well,
curled and perched in the chair, watching him watch the world. She
begged petting, too. "Rob took her home."

  "Rob?" she leaned forward, ready for a story.

  "My relief. I do a bit of traveling in my off time. There's another
bedroom in the living area. I don't know if you've noticed. That's
the relief's room. He hasn't settled in as much as I have, but then
he has a home in the world, where I don't.

  "You, too, are sea tossed?"

  "My dear, if you only knew." He attended the boards, then,
suddenly dedicated to the monitoring devices. He didn't tell her he
was building a home even more remote and isolated than this solitary
lighthouse. He didn't tell her about families lost to the variances
of lives set at different paces and angles. He didn't tell her . . . .

  Once more her hands were on his shoulders. Both of them. This
time she didn't seek support, but gave. It was a strange feeling, the
warmth which flowed through her hands, trailing along his tense muscles,
falling like sheeting water onto his chest, warm and soothing, cascading
into his lower back and buttocks. Her hands moved to the base of his
neck, fingers stroking knotted muscles and seeking the loosening of
corded tendons. They found their way into his hairline, walking at the
back of his head. He heard her sigh outward, deeply, missed the intake
of breath that should have come, found himself waiting for it.

  Her fingers ran above his ears, pressing lightly in a pulsing
rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. He loathed the thought of her
stopping, needed desperately to turn and face her. Did she read his
thoughts, he wondered, reach the deep pain of loss, the longing, touch
the comfort of his dreams? The hands dropped to his shoulders and
held there, still, before moving downward onto his back. He felt a
restive sort of peace, like the moments, in his dreams, just before
his dream Lady looked up. She worked the large muscle groups, wide
ranging curves, kneading fingers, heavy pressure with the sides of her
hands, pulling grief away like a vine wrapped round a trellis. In a
moment, he thought, he would turn and pull her to him, indeed taking a
sea bride from the foam, at least for the moment.

  She tugged at the tail of his shirt, pulling it from his pants.
She pushed it up, exposing his back, laying her flattened palms just
above his waist, working tissue and muscles upward in undulating waves,
until a roll of fabric rode his shoulders. It was then that he felt
her lips upon his skin, the moist tip of her tongue centered as she
kissed the lower region of his right shoulder blade.

  He felt her breath hovering, awaiting his reaction, perhaps.
She took slow pains to rub fingertips into the place she had kissed,
tiny spirals dancing and retreating, before her lips moved on to grace
another spot. His groin was an agony of delight, his fingers still
on the panel before him, frozen, stolen from their assigned occupation.
The kisses comprised his world, the spirals imprinting them into his
flesh. It was she that stopped the magic, she that grasped his shoulders
and pulled him around, swiveling on ball bearings made in a far distant
world. She looked into his eyes as she stepped between his legs, her
fingers at his throat, stroking the hair which peeked forth. She began
to unbutton his shirt. He swallowed, suddenly dry mouthed, as in the
dream he'd had earlier.

  "You've been wandering through my dreams," he stated, speaking
into her hair as she bent to kiss his chest. His hands came up from
the chair arms where they'd landed when she turned him. He touched
the halo of her hair, buried his fingers in the soft mass and willed
himself not to guide her head toward his throbbing erection. He had
no doubt she knew it was there, cramped within the cruel confines of
cloth. She dropped to her knees on the floor, her breasts wedged
between his thighs, her hands working the muscles of his upper chest
while he held her head. The warmth which emanated from her fingers
spread to his thighs, warring with the tension in his groin, soothing,
quieting, releasing a flow of peace into his lower legs and feet. As
it surged upward, a swirling rush of desire at his groin, a quickening
of his pulse, the radio squawked a call.

  Her fingers paused, returning him to his world. He removed his
hands from her hair and rolled back, twisting to answer. Coast Guard.
A lost boat, a request for a beacon redirect. He swallowed, grabbed up
a gulp of cold coffee and groaned. He felt her rise behind him, missed
her immediately as she left him, heard her footfalls on the stairs,
going down.

                               *  *  *

  He stood on the catwalk, his eyes closed as he listened to the
waves ride across the sea floor and crash onto the sand. A solid bank
of fog stood offshore, a wall which isolated him from unseen horizons.
He walked, as he had before, watching, waiting, wishing. The fog
seemed tattered at the moving surface of the ocean, a blanket just
lifting, or now quite fallen. A chill reminded him that he was naked,
the cold metal under his hands sending chills up his arms. He saw
something flash in the distance, something just coming out of the
water to fall onto the sand. Pain shot through his groin as she fell.

  He gripped the railing, wishing, willing her up, to him. How
had she come this way, injured, changed, her dark hair falling forward
to cover her profile as she lay on the beach, sobbing. He wanted to
vault the railing, fly to her, running, his feet a solid print on an
otherwise ethereal plane. "You're dreaming," said a voice, so like
his own he turned to look.

  His reflection stood, mocking, several feet behind him. "You're
dreaming," it repeated.

  He nodded, an acknowledgment, returning his attention to the
woman on the beach. She'd risen and was coming slowly across the sands
toward him, her face lifted, still obscured by the dark hair which had
fallen over it. She should brush it back. Her hand rose to do so, but
a gull swooped toward her from nowhere. The hand rose as a shield and
paused in mid air. The gull landed there, on the back of her hand, like
a pet. "Of course," he spoke, "she is Lady of the sea."

  "A daughter of the Neptune, submariner, mermaid, delver into
the depths of Atlantis," prompted the presence behind him.

  He turned, again, ready to confront what appeared to be his double.

  The gull screamed. The fog rolled in, sudden, a mass as solid, or
more so than the walls of the lighthouse. He looked up with terror,
realizing the light itself had gone out. No, it was his vision, for
he could barely see his own hands as he held them up before his face.
The sobbing reached his ears, then, in that way fog sounds will, near
and yet so far away.

  The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush
of water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly,
and sat up.

  The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush of
water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly, and
sat up.

  Melusine was sitting cross legged on the foot of his bed,
her eyes nearly closed. The shirt, now worn for two day lay open,
revealing the creamy skin of her breasts, her belly, the insides of
her thighs. Her arms were braced behind her, an open invitation spread
waiting for him.

  He remembered then, coming down to find her asleep on her cot,
her back turned, her knees drawn up to her chest. He'd showered and
gone to bed, the morning sun just starting to thin the fog.

  He'd sat in his chair, considered reading until his head dropped
onto his chest, picked at the upholstered arms instead, irritating
himself until, in a flurry of activity he'd pulled a thread loose. Then
he'd drawn the drapes closed and fallen into bed, his fingers wrapped
around the semi erection he'd had through the entire shift.

  His chest heaved with the trauma of the dream, with her luscious
presence, with anger and confusion, with a bit of fear that the light
had truly gone out, or worse, that his dream lady was wandering the
beach looking for him.

  Melusine's eyes opened, looked into his, her face devoid of
expression. She leaned forward, closed the edges of the shirt and
got off the bed. She walked to the window and pulled back a flap of
drape, disappeared behind it, bathing in the misting sunlight. "What
have you done with the sun?" she asked, her tone neither accusing or
wondering, as if she read, poorly, from a script.

  He wiped at his damp brow and tried to clear his sight.

  She moved suddenly and violently, ripping one drape from the
curtain rod, tugging on it until it had fallen to the floor. Gulls
whirled outside the window, their cries muted by the double pains of
glass. She faced him, her entire demeanor demanding, "What have you
done with the sun, Ethan?" she hissed, her brows drawn together in
anger and confusion.

  "I . . ."  he paused, uncertain of her tempers, dismayed by the
change in her mood since she had touched him in the chamber above.

  "Night fogs and tattered dreams!" she threw at him, coming across
the room, flying at him on pounding feet.

  "I think the little lady is put out," said his own voice from
the wall behind him. He twitched, jerked around and saw his own face,
enlarged, looking at him from the seascape above his bed.

  "Night fogs and tattered dreams," she whispered into the
hair on his chest, her head cradled there, her hands stroking his
belly. He grasped the sides of her head, lifted her face and looked
into it. Her gray green eyes reminded him of something, something
undifferentiated. Her lips parted, a softly tempting diversion from
the madness of his layered dreams. A tear rolled from the corner of
one eye, fell onto his chest.

  "Melusine," he breathed, the word echoing through the layers of
his dream.

  He woke later, knowing he had overslept, realizing he'd
forgotten to set an alarm. After grabbing up his pants and jumping
into them he took the stairs up two at a time, his legs seeming
endlessly powerful. He slammed a hand on the controls, reading quickly
in the bright sunlight, the report on the light itself. No problem,
there. Relieved, he took the stairs at twos and threes, searching for
his house guest, sure he must have awakened her with his dash through
the kitchen.

  He found a pot of coffee on the stove, still hot. An opened
carton of eggs sat on the counter next the stove, grease already
scooped into a cold skillet. Her cot was folded neatly, leaning against
a wall, the shirt draped over it. Something cold and heavy sunk at the
pit of his stomach, drawing his testicles upward into his body, seeking
a warmth they could find no other way.

  He vaulted the railing and dropped onto the first landing, his
descent so rapid he surprised himself when he reached the exterior
door and flung it open, flooding the anteroom with sunlight.

  Something fluttered near, screaming. He disregarded it, a foolish
gull come searching for scraps, others hovering, waiting for news. He
had become a refuge for the lazier birds. He resented their intrusion
at the moment, flinging his arms about his head and running onto the
beach.

  He must look a madman to her as she turned from the spigot outside,
dunking her blanket into a water filled bucket, twisting to look at
him with a slight smile.

  He came up short, at a loss for words, for thoughts. She stood naked
in his yard, his hospitality neatly folded in his living quarters, his
breakfast laid out, fresh coffee brewed, washing her only possession,
the ragged blanket she had come wrapped in.

  "Good morning, Ethan," she said.

  "You are not my dream!"  he yelled, startling himself, rushing
to her and taking the blanket from her hands. He flung it into the
sandy yard, scooped her up and carried her back into the lighthouse,
his chest expanding with the fervor of his emotions.

  "I never claimed to be, Ethan."  Suddenly he held a crushed child
in his arms, the tears silent and bitter, pooling in blue depths to
overflow onto her cheeks. He stopped where he was, just on the first
step up, and kissed her, his lips a heated pressure against her moist
coolness. Her arms tightened around his neck, her back arched, the
backs of her thighs sliding against his forearm. She returned his kiss,
her tongue seeking past his lips, a passion brought to a life of its
own. The strength he'd held on the way up to the control room remained
as he carried her up the stairs and through the kitchen to his room.

  He laid her on his bed and bent to bury his face between the mounds
of her breasts, afraid to loose contact with her flesh while he took
his pants off. Her hands caressed the sides of his face, guiding his
lips to the erect perfection of a nipple. She squirmed, her hips
sliding over the sheets, her legs parting. His mouth moved downward,
tongue sliding across her belly, dipping into her navel, as he placed
his hand beneath her bottom and lifted her pelvis.

  Her fingers trailed along his shoulder as he pressed his mouth to
her uplifted mound, parted moist lips and tasted her. "Don't move,"
he said, straightening, undoing his britches one handed, the other
still holding her above the sheets.

  "I can't make any promises," she said, wiping a tear from her face
with the back of one hand while her other stole downward and stroked
the lush growth of hair between her legs. He felt the muscles ripple
in his hand, felt her buttocks tighten. He let her drop to the bed,
shoving his pants down over his hips, releasing his straining penis
to spring upward, kicking the constricting clothing away from his feet
as they dropped.

  Carefully, slowly, he knelt beside her on the bed, hands
stroking the soft skin, angling his body to lay next to her, petting
the length of her like the coat of some great sleek cat. She writhed
under the attention, stretching sensually to give him access to an area
she wished touched. His fingers crept to her mound, short, persistent
strokes, determined, finally parting, again, the hair, the swollen
lips there, to roam the slick moisture he had so recently tasted.

  His erection pressed against her leg, insistent, commanding. He
rolled onto her, covering her body with his own, his hips between her
thighs, his hands grasping her shoulders, his lips pressed wetly
against the side of her neck. Her wetness, spread, rocked against his
lower belly, slid, pulsing, there, in tiny movements. He brought
himself to his knees, loomed over her, bent to suck at one nipple and
the other, pulling them tighter and tighter across the firm globes of
her breasts. His groin, his lower belly, his entire being demanded
entrance. He looked into her face, asking silently, for the
immediacy.

  Her hips arched, feet pressed against the bed, bringing herself
to him.

  She moaned, her head thrashing as he entered, the ache that was his
manhood slowly pushing past each soft barrier, tunneling through the
contracting passage, succumbing to the force which pulled him in.
Slowly he plunged, ever falling, ever soaring to her depths. There,
at her center, he rested, his slow climactic plunge finished, as she
bucked beneath him, her own rhythms carrying her into other worlds. He
gave a moment to regret the speed of his descent, yet felt a certain
pride in the intensity of her response, the abandon with which she
continued to thrust upward, seeking her own heights over and over, her
hands grasping at his shoulders. He held himself steady, realizing
he still maintained, at least, a semi erection for her pleasure.

                               *  *  *

  "She comes to me at night, from the sea. Sometimes during a nap,
if I have worked through the night," he explained.

  She lay on her side next to him, the warmth of her cupped palm
on his moving testicles, delighted in what she had referred to as:
"Full shift-work getting ready for the next order of supplies."
"From the sea," she repeated, thoughts racing behind sky blue eyes.
"Like Aphrodite or Venus."

  "Exactly," he said, glad she understood him. "And," he added,
sheepishly, aglow in her affections, satisfied, for the moment, by
her shared desires, "She loves me."

  "Ah." Melusine rolled to kiss his side, her fingers loosening
at his testicles and coming to stroke below his navel, "one may
not contest with such as She, then."

  "It's a dream, another life," he commented, careful of her
feelings, since she took care with his. He drowsed against her,
the only sound aside from their breathing that of the gulls outside.

  He felt her leave the bed and wished for liquid refreshment but
found himself unable to rouse enough to speak. He heard water running
in the bathroom and closed his eyes.

  It was the sound of the lighthouse door closing that woke him.
She was nowhere in the room, a depression at his side the only warmth
left of her presence. Lazily he stroked himself, rolling from the bed,
seeking the bathroom.

  When he'd finished he wandered into the kitchen, took a can of soda
from the refrigerator and ambled back into the bedroom, anticipating
her return. The noisy birds outside his window drew his interest, the
setting sun a bright disturbance he was unable to control, since she
had pulled down the curtain. He frowned at the tempers of women, the
duality of their passions, making a note to ask her to draw the
drapes, next time, using the cord at the side wall.

  He leaned upon the sill, watching the gulls swoop and soar, his
eyes drawn by one that seemed to dive more expertly than the others.
It had climbed very high, seeking whatever gulls might seek in the
heights, and dove with remarkable speed, zeroed in on a figure on
the beach.

  Ethan started when he realized the figure was Melusine, walking
naked along the shore, sunlight gleaming in her tousled hair. The
bird dived, coming up short of her and hovered, wings spread, before
landing on her out held arm. Slowly she drew her arm down. With a
thrust she flung the bird into the sky, dancing upon the beach,
twisting to watch it ascend, a smile on her face, laughter but a
whisper in his mind.

  She was quite mad, of course, running naked along the beach. And
yet, there was a freedom there he envied. In truth there would be no
one coming along this beach for months, aside from Rob, who would arrive
in two weeks. He, himself, could thus cavort without fear of reprisal
from any. He paused, giving the thought some examination. "Now," he
practiced, hearing the townspeople in his mind, "the lighthouse keeper
has been seen running on the beach with his sea-bride."

  He smiled indulgently at the woman on the sand, watched as she
danced with the incoming foam, watched as she went deeper and deeper
into the surf, splashing like a child, her hands patting the waves as
if she were welcoming old friends. She dropped, dipping below the
surface, to stand, her hair streaming down her back in water darkened
strands which, from his angle, appeared as seaweed. He saw a flash,
then, a tiny light of pearl soft radiance just back of the crown of her
head. Perhaps, he thought, he had plucked a gem from the sea, a living
jewel to grace his afternoon.

  She dipped again, disappearing beneath a wave, the gulls gamboling
in the air above her position, striking out to sea, following her.

  Ethan set his soda can down and leaned into the window, straining
his eyes. He couldn't see her head, her limbs flashing in the waves,
the line of her passing. The gulls rose, one by one, each in their own
time, peeling of from their scattered vigilance, going to their own
affairs, as they, too, lost sight of her beneath the waves.

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine. 
From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her 
husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her 
first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since. 
Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17. 
The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days 
and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great 
stories in the best Electronic Magazines.
=====================================================================

                                                      
