Tears of the Furies

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A pale shroud had been drawn across the sky, softening the midday sun and filtering its rays through a layer of gauzy surreality. Billowing mist clung to the indigo waters of the Aegean Sea. This was the familiar, tangible world, yet in conditions like these, other worlds seemed close at hand, perhaps just a breath away.

It won’t be long now, Nigel Gull thought. A thick bead of sweat slid from the top of his misshapen skull down the knobby flesh of his face, and he wiped it away with a silk handkerchief clutched in a contorted hand.

The cool haze lessened the heat, but only barely. Gull gazed up at sun where it hid behind the drifting fog. It reminded him of the eye of some watchful deity, the once all-seeing orb glazed over with the film of death. He found it all strangely appropriate, to be observed from above by a god long dead.

He twisted around in his seat and narrowed his gaze as he regarded the skipper of the small boat. Though motorized, to his mind it was barely more than a skiff, certainly not large enough for the man to earn the title of captain.

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