Fathom by Cherie Priest

peers, or by his family. It was not created by his friends. It was made by liars and enemies, and it became a story for lighthearted bedtime sharing between children. It became a fairy tale, written by idiots and told by fiends.
    “I removed from the face of the earth every trace that he’d ever lived. There remains neither note nor relic to confirm he ever breathed before I claimed him.
    “So he can have his legend, and my word has not been bent. But it is not the legend he would have chosen for himself. And, I think, it gives him great grief. His enemies insult him with their fondness, and with their familiarity. But there is always a price for failure.
    “This is not to say that I hate my wicked little son, far from it. I love him, as I love you—and I have loved him longer. And this, my daughter, is where you join the story.”
     

     
    If the woman hears her, she cannot signal it. If the woman cares, she is beyond the ability to demonstrate it. She sleeps, and listens.
     

     
    “I have realized my mistake. It was not that I chose the wrong mortal, for I did not. It was not that I charted the wrong course, for the course was sound. It was not that my timing was false, for to creatures like the Leviathan and me, time as you feel it is meaningless. It was that the task I assigned was too much for one man. One man can do only so much against the forces I sent him to meet. Mere legend and mere lore cannot move him to the ends of the earth, and deeper and farther than that. Mere myth is not enough to push a man into darkness and beyond it.
    “And so, I give him a new goal. I give him a new prize, and a new direction. I will send him again to that place where the bottom of the ocean is close enough to the surface that a man might touch it. But I cannot ask him to do this alone.
    “And so, now I give him a
woman.
And another chance to take the
Arcángel
down to the bottom of the earth, where my father might hear my son if he carries a newer, more powerful call.”
    The woman in Arahab’s arms does not open her eyes or signal that she’s seen, or heard. She does not move, or gasp, or agree, or dissent. She does not acknowledge hearing any of this, though she’ll remember all of it later.

 
     
     
     
     
The Cocoon
     
     
    T he tide receded and sunlight seared Nia’s eyes. It must have been morning.
    Footsteps crunched in the sand. Nia, lying on her back, tried to turn her head to see who was coming, but her neck was terribly stiff.
    In the distance, the waves chased each other back and forth across the sand, and seagulls argued over edible creatures the tide had stranded on shore. Up on the dunes behind her, the grasses whispered in the Gulf breeze.
    The footsteps crashed closer. People were coming.
    She wasn’t sure how she’d made it onto the beach.
    “What’s that?” someone wondered aloud.
    “It looks like a girl. Maybe we found one of them?”
    “No. Wait.”
    The two men stood over her and stared down in disbelief.
    Help me,
she whispered.
Something’s wrong. I can’t move my . . . anything.
    “Damn, Rick.”
    “Where’d that come from?”
    “Maybe it was on a ship. Maybe we should bring the sheriff.”
    Nia would’ve jumped, if she could’ve moved.
Help me,
she tried again to cry.
    One of the men flicked his finger against her arm. She felt the sting of the tiny blow, but his knuckle thumped solidly; it did not snap the flesh. She struggled to move, and to ask questions. The man had said, “Maybe we found one of them.” Her cousin must still be missing.
    “What do we do with it?”
    “I don’t know. Go ask Missus Marjorie. It’s her property. Or it’s
on
her property, anyway.”
    Nia listened to their retreating footsteps. She was lying on her back, staring at the clouds.
Come back,
she prayed, because she could not speak.
I think you’re looking for me. I’m right here. Oh God. Oh God.
Panic surged through her limbs, but no fear, no anger, no amount of willpower could make