Moon and Tide

A salty evening breeze blew gently, though forcefully, out from metronomic push of the tide, across the beach, up through the weedy, lizard-infested dunes, right into Quinten’s smiling face. It was cool; it smelled heavy – it felt nice. Quinten, clichés be damned, loved taking long walks on the beach. He did it lonesomely, however. He loved walking along the shore at night, feeling the lapping froth of the tide swarm around his ankles. He enjoyed using his flashlight – which he always brought along – to spot crabs scurrying frantically from the sand back into the water. He liked looking for starfish and sand dollars. He never kept them, though; he felt bad about killing things pointlessly. He always looked out for jellyfish – he’d had a bad experience once, when he had stepped on a sprawling, beached man o’ war. His foot was never the same – not completely – after that incident.

The night was dark. It was overcast, though a full moon still shown confidently through the cottony curtain of cloud. The smell of rain, remnant from the previous, nightly thunderstorm, still seasoned the salty air. It was a perfect night. Quinten felt good.

Quinten looked behind. He liked to watch the tide engulf his footprints, as if destroying some ancient crater – some prehistoric artifact. Time was relative, that way, Quinten thought. Maybe for some creatures – for the crabs, perhaps – a couple of minutes was like a lifetime.

There was a fire some way down the beach. Quinten couldn’t tell exactly how far away it was – gauging depth was nearly impossible when peering down the coast. It was about a mile off, he guessed, likely inaccurately. He continued his stroll.

Nearing the fire, he saw shadowy, gangly figures, dancing circularly around the flame as if ritualistically, their swirling shadows – much like those on the walls of Plato’s cave – larger, somehow more real. He could smell the fire. They were burning cedar; Quinten loved that smell. They were listening to music quite loudly. Quinten couldn’t tell what it was at first, but approaching more closely he recognized it as Sing This All Together, by The Rolling Stones. Quinten liked it when people appreciated the deep tracks. He smiled, continuing his walk.

This was the first night Quinten had walked this section of the coast. There was a small cove, which he had read about online. Coves weren’t common around Charleston, at least not the type of coves Quinten imagined. He wanted rocky cliffs and hidden pools. He would be disappointed, tonight – he knew that. There were no rocky cliffs in South Carolina, only long, sandy beaches. If it were a real cove, he wouldn’t have been able to see these people dancing around the fire – they would be completely hidden. It was a sad excuse for a cove.

The voices heightened as Quinten neared the party. He was able to make out some words. Most of it was just singing along to the Stones, but some of it wasn’t:

“She’s coming! She’ll be here, soon!” said one of them. That sounded innocent enough. The voices continued:

“Out from within the tide! She’s waiting! Waiting for us to provide her with sustenance! Her energy preserving the world!”

“What the fuck?” thought Quinten, continuing forward. He would veer wide, he thought, away from the shore, up near the dunes, to avoid the dancing weirdos.

As dark as the night was, they still saw him shuffling past:

“Hey!” shouted one of them, “Lonesome traveler! Come celebrate with us!”

Quinten put his head down, continuing his now stressed trudge. He pushed forward quickly; sand filling his flip-flops. He was very introverted; he had no problem ignoring people. These individuals, unfortunately, were not to be ignored.

“Hey!” several of them shouted in planned unison, subsequently sprinting across the sand in Quinten’s direction. Quinten stopped and turned to them. He knew he would have to talk to them, now.

Approaching him, one of the dancing weirdos handed Quinten a beer. It was a frothing, opened, lukewarm can of Busch. Quinten liked beer; he grabbed it, smiling awkwardly – taking a healthy swig.

“Come celebrate with us, my dude!” said one of the three of them. It was a longhaired, scraggly bearded man. Shirtless, he was wearing ripped, stained blue jean shorts; clearly cut-off, repurposed former pants.

“I’m just on a walk,” said Quinten, “I didn’t really plan to stay out very late tonight.”

“Nonsense!” said another of the group, “My name is Lily. This strapping lad here is Dandy, and my other friend is Rose. We have more beer. We have a huge fire and good tunes! We have other substances, too, if you’re into that sort of thing!”

Quinten was into that sort of thing. He wasn’t, however, into joining unknown groups of vagabond beatniks. He was an introvert, dammit: he didn’t like people. He was also bad at turning people down – he could never just say no.

Lily, Dandy, and Rose ushered Quinten over to the bonfire, which had grown substantially. It rose swirling into the night; cracking and flashing chaotically like an overly theatrical tap dancer. The smoke wafted into Quinten’s face. It burned his eyeballs, but it smelled nice. He shielded his face, blinking moisture out from within his stinging eyes. Turning away, he took another swig of his beer, which he had mostly drained.

“Hey man!” said Dandy, slapping Quinten on the shoulder with his left arm while gesturing around the fire with his right, “I’m going to let you in on a little something!”

Quinten looked around the fire. Other than Dandy, Lily, and Rose, he saw numerous other nameless, shadowy individuals prancing around the flickering flame.

“Yeah,” said Quinten, “What’s that?”

“Well,” said Dandy, “This isn’t just some average party, you know?”

“Yeah, I kind of caught that vibe.”

“No shit! We’re that obvious, huh? Well, you were correct, my brother. This is a special evening. We only come out here about once a month – any time there’s a full moon, like tonight.” Dandy was pointing up into the sky. Quinten looked to the clouds, again noticing the glowing moon splitting the overcast sky.

“We have a bit of a ritual, you know?” continued Dandy, “Well, it’s mostly my ritual – mine, Lily’s, and Rose’s; we sort of run this gang. The rest of these guys, you know – they’re so innocent! They’re just a bunch of flowers, man – a bunch of dancing tulips. They’re all zonked out of their minds, most of the time – but in a good way.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I caught that vibe, too.”

“You’re a perceptive little fucker, huh!” said Dandy. He looked down to the soft, cold sand, kicking around at it contemplatively. “You know, you’re part of our ritual, guy. It’s lucky you were walking by. I wasn’t sure we were going to find anyone tonight. We just don’t go giving away free booze to anyone, you know. We’re not exactly flush with cash. Booze is important. If we’re going to give you a free beer, there’s a reason. A good reason. Now you know…”

Quinten, lifting his beverage in thanks to cheers, glugged down the Busch, crushing the can and tossing it into the fire.

"Well,” he said, “Thanks! Now, I’ve really got to be on my way.”

Quinten turned to leave. Dandy glared at him curiously:

“You must not be as perceptive as I thought, my guy.”

Quinten, stumbling backward, soon fell to the sand. His eyes became immediately heavy. He passed out hard. The dark night further blackened into subconscious emptiness.

When Quinten awoke, he noticed that he had been bound by a collection of bungee cords. He struggled, flailing around on the ground like a beached dolphin, but the only thing he managed to accomplish was kicking sand into his mouth. He spat it out, hacking.

“Hey there, dude!” said Dandy, now standing over him. Lily and Rose joined him on either side. They stood staring down upon Quinten, grinning wide. Quinten shuffled again. He wasn’t going anywhere – he was stuck.

“Sorry, my man.” said Dandy, again kicking at the sand, “We had no choice, you know. You seem like a real solid dude. I think so, and so do Lily and Rose – right ladies?”

Lily and Rose stared at Quinten vacantly, Rose’s upper lip curved involuntarily into a sarcastic smile.

“We had to find someone. If we didn’t, we couldn’t complete the ritual. Usually, there are plenty of fuckers strolling the cove at night – we’re usually able to scoop up some dumb bastard. But you were the only one, today, so we had to choose you – we had no other option.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Quinten said, flailing again unsuccessfully. He was sweaty. He was afraid; he felt panic-induced weakness.

Dandy turned Quinten from his previous westward position perpendicularly with the tide, to face it parallely. Lily and Rose then rolled him toward the water. Upon each completed revolution, Quinten spat out the sand collected from having his face buried in the beach. He eventually felt the cool, shifting tide of the water. He tasted the salt and the seaweed. He felt minnows darting around his skin. In his periphery, he could see light from the full moon, still splitting the clouds.

“It’s time!” yelled Rose abruptly. She lifted her leg, placing it atop Quinten’s ass, which faced skyward like the rounded knobs of his central Kentucky motherland. Quinten, his head in the sand, turned his cheek to the gathering crowd.

“We do this once a month, and we do it for a reason!” said Rose, “She is the center of our family! She is our culture! Without her, we have nothing! She needs to be fed!”

The group of crazies previously dancing around the bonfire – now gathered around Rose at the edge of the tide – cheered triumphantly. They jumped up and down. They pranced dramatically – spreading wide and flapping their elbows like a flock of brazen roosters. They howled at the moon. They drank their booze. Quinten noticed a thrown, emptied bottle of champagne wedge itself into the sand right in front of his face.

“Hey!” yelled Lily, “Don’t damage the sacrifice! We want him slightly bloodied, but not bruised! She doesn’t like bruised meat!”

Bloody? Bruised? Quinten thought to himself. What were these bastards about to do to him? Before gathering an answer – before collecting himself mentally – Quinten felt a hot slice down the backside of his forearm. Blood ran like a hot tap from his exposed veins into the sand. The blood collected in the sand, balling up and forming maroon, morbid cakes. Gathering crabs, clicking excitedly, ate them up. Before Quinten had a chance to come to terms with his blood loss, he was rolled into the tide.

“Now!” yelled Rose, “Now is when she will be fed. She is hungry! It’s been thirty days since the last moon. She needs to feast. When she feasts, we too are sustained!”

Saltwater invaded Quinten’s nasal cavity. It flushed down his throat. He coughed, though underwater, screaming muffled nothings bubbling out from within the depths. Lily and Dandy pushed him further into the water.

Quinten sat for some time silently. He was still bound, but he wasn’t deep enough into the water to fully drown. The tide washed over him repeatedly. He would cough, spit, and then breathe heavily during those moments of gasping fresh air. Nothing else, other than that, happened for some time.

Growing impatient, Rose stepped up to where Quinten lay, planting roughly her knee on his ass. She gripped his long hair, shoving his head into the underwater, muddy sand:

“You’re her meal,” said Rose after lifting his head from the water, “You’re going to help summon her. She always comes. She comes for everyone; she will come for you!”

Quinten was confused, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than fighting for air when the opportunity arose. He didn’t respond to Rose. She didn’t seem to like that.

Rose again unsheathed her blade, which glittered in the light of the moon – a metal-encased, rusted box-cutter – and sliced down on each of Quinten’s calves. He shrieked out in pain from beneath the swarming tide.

“She will come,” said Rose, “In time, she will come.”

Rose, standing up, stepped away in horrifying stoicism. Quinten flailed around in the wake. He was only hurting himself, by doing that – he couldn’t escape. His blood pooled in the shifting, swirling, gradually increasing tide.

Quinten felt something kick against his leg – a large fish, perhaps. He was afraid, but he was a realist – shark attacks were rare. It was very unlikely that a shark would swim up, this close to shore, and make a meal out of him. Quinten wasn’t stupid.

He then felt a shock-inducing chomp into his side. It couldn’t truly be described as painful because it happened too suddenly – too unexpectedly – to be considered pain. It isn’t possible to feel pain when a horror so abruptly forces itself upon you, only excruciating confusion.

Quinten flailed again. When the tide subsided, he saw wriggling chaotically in the remnant sand a massive Tiger Shark. It twisted circularly, consuming everything – the sand, the gathering horde of crabs, the entire left side of Quinten’s body.

Quinten groaned pathetically. His time was done. The tide again receding, he glanced to the bonfire. He saw Rose, her hands lifted skyward, shouting in triumph:

“She comes once more!” yelled Rose, “She comes to feast! She ensures our culture! She does what is natural – she is our spirit!”

The dancing crowd yelled in celebratory agreement.

Before being pulled forever into the deep, Quinten saw on the edge of the fire, kicking around the sand uncertainly – almost sadly – Dandy. Lily stood beside him, attempting comfort. Quinten found their apparently genuine melancholy offensive.

The Tiger Shark ripped continuously at Quinten’s exposed organs. Quinten lost consciousness not long into the meal – his body’s natural processes could at least provide him that comfort. When the shark had sufficiently filled the ballast of it belly, and when Quinten himself had been entirely consumed, the shark – She, as she was known by the cult – tore away his spine, crunching it like a dog with a bone, swimming away, kicking up the swell with her tailfin.

Quinten’s detached head sat staring blankly to the sky, up to the full moon, as the progressing tide engulfed it.

Another moon would arise, in the following month. The celebration continued late into the night.

End