Beyond the Bounds of Infinity by Vaughn A. Jackson

Author:Vaughn A. Jackson [Jackson, Vaughn A.; Pearre, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Raw Dog Screaming Press
Published: 2024-07-23T20:17:54+00:00

A Dampened Embrace

Christopher Hann

It was the first week of summer and the events that transpired were thus:

Mother passed away on Sunday

She was buried on Wednesday

Her grave was reported to have been robbed on Friday

And on Saturday, at the first light of a dreadfully humid morning, my mentally unstable father called me over landline, informing me that he had come into possession of a mermaid.

I sat for an hour thinking about the worst implications possible, and the ghastly predicament I was now forced to resolve—should these implications be true. I questioned the plausibility of the scenario at hand. A frail old man could not possibly unearth an entire grave overnight. Perhaps the events weren’t related at all—a mountain hog was to blame for Mother’s missing corpse, and Father’s call was a mere display of his condition—fragmented delusions of a deteriorating mind, made acute by the onset of grief.

But then I remembered how Father jumped into the grave and wept atop Mother’s casket. How he screamed indecipherable chants of lament and heartbreak. How the topsoil wasn’t filled at the time due to this commotion. I doubt the workers ever returned to finish the job.

Perhaps the authorities had to get involved, should the situation be as ugly as I imagined. I left for my father’s house promptly at noon.

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The holiday traffic gave me ample time to wallow in my dread.

Hot. Humid. Summer. Mom. Body.

Mermaid.

I tried my utmost not to dwell on these words, for the image they formed made me ill. Strangely enough, however, in the roiling cauldron of emotions that assailed my stomach, one that could not be found was sorrow. No sorrow, no pain—just like when I had heard of Mother’s passing.

Something to do with her thyroid. She was brought down with hormonal shock, developed a fever, and just as easy as that she was gone.

Admittedly I was coldhearted, for Mother and Father were never the ones to ill-treat their son and—in hindsight—I believe they tried their best to love me. Alas things weren’t so simple, for as far as I am aware, estrangement and antipathy are common symptoms when reluctantly raised in a family of shamans.

Shamanism isn’t some mystic art, nor a rarity where I come from. Even in 21st century metropolitan South Korea, where cities shine bright and billboards even brighter, shamanism still lurks, walking a tentative line between monks and tarot readers. At the risk of criticism, I will call them what they are—or at least what I believed them to be—charlatans whose perceived abilities of mindreading and fortunetelling only delve as far as the faith in their façade. I would even go on to say that some of them were predators—snouts keen to sniff out the naïve; jaws vicious in their assault upon the desperate. If there was money to be squeezed, shamans knew how to squeeze it.

Say these prayers or you’ll fail your exam (it’ll cost you).

Carry this emblem or you’ll have an accident (it’ll cost you).

Perform this ritual or your child won’t be rid of cancer (it’ll cost you—a lot).

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