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Catherine left the classroom and got on the boss and got off the bus and walked up the steps and opened the door and closed the door and said “mother, I have an assignment” and went upstairs to her room and got on her computer and began typing and this is what she typed:

Twenty Famous Shipwrecks of the 19^th to 21^s Centuries, by Catherine Clearwater, Age 9 and 3/5ths ™

The Manifest Munificence

1804, ship of the line.  First-class man-o-war intended to strike fear into the heart of Europe through overwhelming splendour, with not only the most cannons ever put on any boat  but the most expensive due to the entirety of the ship’s armaments being gilded.  Subsequent overhauls added silvered masts, platinum-encrusted railings, bejeweled lines, and diamond-coated cannonballs.  It is estimated that one-eighth of the total net economic value of all human history was lost when it sank under the weight of its own expenses in port. 

The Capering Crane

2015, superyacht.  Took on too many barrels of champagne in Fiji during the birthday celebrations of its owner (pineapple tycoon Marvin Y. Moose) and popped like a cork.  Marvin’s skull was found two decades later in the north Atlantic, still light and bubbly with a refreshingly crisp edge. 

Her Grace

1859, barque.  Executed personally on June 2^nd by Her Majesty Queen Victoria for high treason after sailing insolently in front of the sun as she took her tea.  Required an afternoon’s work and six sharpenings to chop all the way through the mast.  Prince Albert helped. 

The Wandering Eyeball

1990, oil tanker.  Made a hard right turn and slammed directly into the only known nesting habitat of the lesser north American pudgegull, washing sixteen miles of coast off the map in a single giant tidal wave of crude and fumes.  Captain Smithereens, who was recently divorced, claimed that the birds were laughing at him and was let off with paid vacation time. 

The Moon Under My Amy

1923, sailboat.  Yanked violently underwater in less than an instant during a fishing competition off the coast of Bermuda.  Was awarded first place posthumously. 

Catherine got up and stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders and walked to her door and opened her door and called out ‘Mother.  A glass of water, please” and went back to work. 

The Shattered Scaphoid

1872, ironclad.  One of the many experiments in ship production that took place from the 1860s to the 1890s, the Shattered Scaphoid was lost during its trial voyage from Virginia to Massachusetts ten seconds after launching, putting a reluctant-but-firm end to theories of a warship that confused its foes by sailing upside-down.

The Crestpucular

1873, clipper.  Was just rounding Cape Horn with a full load of coal when it paused to salvage some flotsam consisting of two tons of flint-and-steel firestarters and several waterproofed crates of dried and aged parchment. 

The Perring and Hickle

1915, battlecruiser.  Passed under Coldwine Bridge on a lazy Sunday afternoon when children were throwing stones into the water and caught a big boulder from Eddie Foster; lost with all hands in an instant. 

The Carol von Hummus

1951, aircraft carrier.  Lost while testing the flight capabilities of the single experimental prototype of the Loman L-4 Lancelot, the so-called ‘Brick Buzzard.’ Transmissions  indicate launch proceeded smoothly but was followed instantly by a somewhat problematic landing. 

Catherine rolled her neck back and forth and worked her jaw and got up and opened her door and called “Mother, another glass of water please” and waded back to her keyboard.

The Repugnant

1940, corvette.  Sunk itself while completing basic training near Halifax after the bridge crew tried to settle an argument over how to arm a depth charge with firsthand evidence. 

The Elmo Fitzpatrick

1979, rowboat.  Tipped over on July 4^th during an unauthorized expedition to see the fireworks across the bay when the first mate’s illegal pet snake escaped her pocket and slithered up the captain’s shorts.  

The Wilforb Smitherling

1935, tugboat.  Tripped over a branch.

Catherine called once more over the splashing “Mother, water please.”

The Hurgybirdy

1872, clipper.  Lost off of Cape Horn with her cargo of flint-and-steel and dried and aged parchment, along with Captain Shookshiv’s entire world-renowned collection of very pure and incredibly flammable alcohols and exotic kerosenes.  It’s possible they were led off-course by the inexplicable second sun that rose briefly off the coast of South Africa that evening. 

The Fanciful Pantaloons

1812, schooner.  Constructed by the British, captured by the Americans, stolen back by the British, set on fire by the Americans, sent blazing into Cleveland by the British, extinguished by the Americans, set on fire again by the British, and sank precisely in the middle of Lake Superior after being disowned by both countries. 

“Mother!  Water.”

The

“Water!”
Gleerful

“More water!”
Ol’

“Water please!”
So-and-so

“Water”

Sank

“Another glass!”
in

“Refill please!”

the

“More!”
drank.

“WATER!”

She waited.  No more water was forthcoming. 

So Catherine sighed and shook her head and shimmied her spine and swam gently down the stairs into the murky depths of the kitchen and turned the rusted faucet and watched the currents eddy around its muzzle as she held her glass to it.  Eels eeled by the window as she mouthed at the rim, frowning at the glistening dark of the sunset’s light far overhead. 

Still five wrecks short.  Perhaps she could go and make some in time for the deadline.

On the day the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf marched through my town, I was busy.  Nedd Potter’s beard was a tangled and fearsome creature even on his good days, and the weather out was hot and humid – a blackberry patch would’ve put up less resistance.  So it was that I managed to ignore all sight and sound of outdoor hubbub and ruckus until I heard (midway through a particularly tanglesome knot) the sound of a throat clearing. 

“Take a seat, be with you in ten, sorry to make you wait,” I said, for I hate disappointing people.  “Nedd, quit swallowing like that or I’ll cut an artery.”

Nedd slumped over backwards in a disobedient faint.

“Goddamnit.”
“Barber.  Your attention is required.”
I turned around ready to say something firm and no-nonsense and was put off my train of thought by the six-foot-ten knight clad in a jumble of spikes, skulls, and demons aglow with mortal peril and arcane power that was standing at my doorstep. 

“Hello,” I said, intelligently. 

“You are hereby conscripted,” said the knight, choosing to ignore this, “into the service of Her Overlord’s First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf.  Pack your tools and report to barracks immediately.”
I looked at my razor and comb and then I looked at the knight’s fluorescent and wailing bastard sword, still gleaming from a polishing.

“I don’t think my tools are what you’re looking for here,” I managed. 

“Oh quite the contrary,” said the knight.  “Quite the contrary.”

***

There’s a lot to a bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin most people don’t know about; and then there’s a lot to a bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin that even the bloodthirsty rapacious army of hellsworn fiends in human skin don’t know about.  And one of the latter blind spots is barbering, and one of the former is its necessity. 

Every member of the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf wore a unique greathelm, covering all hint of their humanity but a dying twinkle of eyeshine viewed through a slit barely wide enough for a fingernail.  And inside there had to be a barely-human skull, and on that skull there had to be a head of hair just sufficient to fill space between the underpadding and the skull and exactly no longer, and it had to be kept that way. 

I cut dozens a day, and after the first dozen I had the hang of it, and after the first day I had the mastery of it, and after the first week I was as bored as a grown man could be without being dead, which was something I’d also seen a lot of despite being far back from the frontlines.  Our marches took us over an awful lot of corpses, and I started to envy the mutilated bodies of the fallen: at least they’d never have to look at another unshorn, sweaty head of gnarled corruption-riddled hairs snarling themselves into a muted mess around an inexplicable bald spot.

That’s what got to me in the end. 

That damned bald spot.

***

It lived atop every pate, covered every crown.  The size of my two thumbs pressed together at the first knuckle, round and opening onto greasy-pale to bruise-dark or everything-between skin.  The lieutenants had it.  The captains had it.  The sergeants had it.  The footmen had it.  The general – who also had a giant pair of gnarled bull horns protruding from her skull – also had it. 

And god help me, as I walked and rode and trudged the miles of burned fields and ruined towns and blasted roads, it grew and grew in my head to be the whole source of all misery and pain in my life. 

That damned bald spot. 

***

Gel was the first answer.  Stiffen the hair that’s around it, put more spine into it, let it stand tall and ward off wear and tear from the weight of that warbucket of a helm and its thick padding.  But I had nothing but an over-sharpened razor and plain sudsy lather and a gnarled old comb left to work with (I don’t know what the average First Darkest Nightmare Knight sprouts from their scalp, but it’s hard and angry as wire). 

So I put in a trip to procurement, and I braved the dragon-torn visage of the Chief Supply Sergeant, Moonfalcon Mightslayer, and I presented him with my request. 

“Gel?”
“Yes,” I said. 

His silence invited words. 

“Like, glue.  But for hair.”
It deepened. 

“For hair,” I repeated. 

“For.  Hair,” he put forwards.

“For hair,” I agreed.

“For hair,” he concluded, and pulled out a piece of scrip from his deadoak desk, scrawling upon it with a crow’s-feather pen.  “Giant snail mucus.  The apothecaries use it as a binding agent for particularly ductile unguents.  Speak to Foulmixer Ghoulbottle.”

I did, and I didn’t even black out when I entered the apothecary’s tent, where the air mostly wasn’t and the smell was too powerful for the human nose to comprehend.  I took my precious jar of greying silk-soft goo and I set it aside and I woke the next morning full of purpose and I spent all day cutting and combing and coating and coating, combfull after combfull and I went to bed hopeful and then I was rudely awoken past midnight by Captain Manifest Mournmurder to tell him exactly why his entire platoon’s helmets wouldn’t come off. 

***

The next day, after being whipped to within two inches of my life, I cut hair without grumbling, fussing, mussing, or moussing. 

And the day after. 

And the day after.

And by the fourth day I was going crazy at seeing my reflection in the bald spot of a thousand murderous fiend-slave warmongers and I went to the apothecary’s tent again and spoke to Foulmixer Ghoulbottle, whose breath smelled of honey and the despair of a dying parent, and asked if there was such a thing in all their knowledge that could restore lost hair to the scalp of a human. 

“Hellhound sweat simmered with harpy spittle,” they proclaimed without a moment’s hesitation.  “Easy as pie.  Don’t even need a writ for it: the hounds sweat buckets every day and nobody uses the spit for anything since we switched to skeletal horses last year and lost the need for saddle sore ointments.”  I thanked them profusely and returned home with a bottle of liquid hope, which I sprinkled a half-droplet of on each awful little scalp that visited me all the next day from morning to sunset. 

I was dragged from my berth at midnight under a full moon at the request of General Stormeater Mastermight to explain precisely why she and half her command staff had spontaneously sprouted a full yard of hair each within six hours of their barbering, pushing their helms clean off their skulls in the midst of pitched battle. 

***

So, after being whipped to within an inch of my life, I was a little reluctant to try my hand at fixing this issue.  I tried to embrace the bald spot, to love it uncritically, to accept it into my life as it so readily wanted. 

I lasted almost half a day this time. 

It was in the haircutting of some anonymous trooper that I lost my grip once and for all.  I was trimming and cutting and tidying and without meaning to, quite without my conscious direction, my left hand flipped my comb a tiny bit harder than usual and plopped a thin strand of coarse and roughened hair atop the bald spot. 

I stared at my crime as my other hand continued cutting. 

Surely this could not be it.  Surely this most-transparent masking could not be enough to satisfy the hunger in my soul.  It wouldn’t fool a blind man at a dozen paces.  It was less convincing than a wig woven from dandelion stems. 

But I didn’t have to look into that damned bald spot and see my face staring back.  So I let it be, and not on the next trooper, but the trooper after that, my hand slipped a little again.

And again. 
And again.

And since I spent the whole night in dreamless slumber without so much as a whip in sight, I kept slipping with my work, combing over the spot with a thick swathe of still-growing hair.  It soothed something in me, and my days passed from boredom into its beatific cousin: tranquillity. 

***

Two months later, I woke up, reported to my station, and found it was missing along with half the mess and half the officer corps and the entirety of high command and someone had torn down the banner of the First Darkest Nightmare Knight Order of the Dying Ravenwolf and replaced it with a ragged white flag and nobody was wearing their helmets anymore but instead were tossing them into the sky like ugly metal reverse-rain, running wild and free through the camp. 

“DEATH TO THE TYRANT OVERLORD!” shouted the knights as they marched.  “DEATH TO THE SLAVER QUEEN!  TO REBEL IS TO LIVE!”

“HUZZAH!” cheered a passing squad, who grabbed me and threw me atop their shoulders as they marched in great dizzy circles around the camp.  “WE ARE FREE!  FREE!  FREE!”

A helmet landed in my lap as I was carried, nearly crushing my groin.  As I scrambled to heave the thing away, my eyes alit inside it for the first time, and I was surprised to see that there was a cruelly barbed hook inside its very peak, dripping with malicious ensorcellments of servitude and enslavement meant to snag in and drip into its wearer from the crown downwards. 

Oh. 

***

I never quite told the historians how I managed to discover the secret technique to overthrowing the mind-thralldom of the Overlord.  They seemed so happy to meet the brave hero who started the great rebellion, and I hate disappointing people. 

Preface

The following report was set up under stressful circumstances of limited time, budget, tools, and staff, in an atmosphere largely composed of pure poison.  Nonetheless, it represents a unique and first precious glimpse of a culture of sapient beings hitherto entirely alien to us, spoken of only in rumours and bad sci-fi novels.  No longer must we ask ourselves ‘is there someone out there?’  This question has been answered.  This gap in our understanding has been filled.  If nothing else, let this be the true fruit of our research, all else being but paltry additions to our library of knowledge in comparison to such a profoundly beautiful shifting of paradigm. 

Introduction

The research team crashed onto the surface of Sol III due to navigational mishaps as a result of unauthorized ingestion of recreational ethanol-based substances by the helmsmen.  After traditional staff discipline and reprimands was administered at high volume, repairs began, only to be interrupted by the arrival of several approaching pieces of local wildlife.  To our astonishment, the creatures immediately began to investigate our vessel, testing its composition and dimensions systematically and periodically consulting one another for opinion and evidence.  Intrigued by this unprecedented reaction, we began study.  What follows is a distilled debrief of our findings. 

Methodology

Senior Helmsman Squirb was sent out to investigate the aliens in close proximity, as it was felt his expertise having led us here made him the clear symbolic choice.  No armour or protective gear was used, to avoid the appearance of hostility or ill intent.

Evidence

Senior Helmsman Squirb began his investigation by creating loud rhythmic noises at the airlock to catch the attention of the aliens while calling out to mission command to verify our ability to hear him.  The combination drew the subjects in quickly and soon SH Squirb found himself in the privileged position of being the first to make contact with sapient aliens.  He immediately waved his hands in the pattern-of-greeting, whereupon one of the aliens tried to eat his right limb.  Luckily, it was a misunderstanding: it appears that the aliens were merely greeting him with their mouths.

SH Squirb, having made peaceful contact, then attempted to reach us with the intention of confirming his mission orders, but mission command deemed the risk of introducing the aliens to the interior of our vessel was too high and instead told him to continue the study.  SH Squirb’s subsequent ruckus frightened the aliens away some small distance, and due to their considerable body mass SH Squirb was forced to flee with them or be trampled.  Despite their skittish reaction the aliens remained tolerant of him, and he was permitted to mount one of them and be carried away to their home community some distance away. 

The alien’s dwelling was a communal structure consisting of a large open interior crafted from cloven and shaped material drawn from the local gigaflora.  SH Squirb was somewhat distracted at the time monitoring the behaviour and customs of his hosts and so – regrettably – cannot offer a full accounting of its construction, although he asserts that despite ample ventilation it smelled truly awful.  The aliens confined themselves there with SH Squirb throughout the night until sunrise, when a bipedal animal (some sort of domesticate?) slunk into the building and the community departed into the fields en masse.  SH Squirb, not wanting to alarm his hosts again, chose to re-enter the vessel by sneaking away and clambering through the starboard viewing port, whereupon he immediately began debriefing mission command as quickly and loudly as possible. 

Analysis

Physiologically, the aliens are quadrupedal and herbivorous, subsisting on tough grasses and tender grains.  Their bodies are heavyset and contain multiple stomachs, the rumbling of which may be a form of long-distance communication.  No grasping appendages are in use besides the lips, which are large, dextrous, and exceedingly moist.  The hide is covered with short black-and-white spotted hair and appears to be of extreme durability.  Small horns adorned their skulls, without apparent use or function beyond the ceremonial or decorative.  One individual possessed larger horns and was surprisingly large and aggressive; possibly a security guard or some sort of religious officiant.  Infants are large and well-developed, and somewhat nimbler than the parents.  The eyes are powerful and large, the ears gracefully elongated and tufted with guard hairs to keep out annoyances, pests, and harsh weather. 

Sociologically they are highly advanced, living in perfect harmony with one another – several individuals even took ‘naps’ by resting their heads atop their friends’ backs, without so much as a word of protest or a request needed.  The children are given much freedom to explore and play, although they seem to retain great fondness for their matrons.  No violence or signs of violence was visible, and the naked and benign curiosity displayed towards us without so much as a hint of wariness or fear indicates that we may have much to learn from the wisdom of their society. 

Communication appears to be largely oral-aural, with a surprisingly small vocabulary that gains deeper meaning through a complex arrangement of body language intonation, and possibly scent.  A rudimentary dictionary of the alien language is thus possible (see below section), but grammar remains a mystery.  A followup with an experienced linguistics team is urgently requested. 

Exploratory (Hypothetical) Dictionary

“Mruuuuh.”  Hello. 

“Muuuuh.”  I am interested in you. 

“Moooo.”  What is this?
“Moooooo-UNH.”  Excuse me sir, please pay attention.  .

“MREEEEAAA.”  Run away very very quickly.

Conclusions

The inhabitants of Sol III are not only the first documented fellow sapients of the universe, they are exemplary.  A full ambassador party is recommended at the earliest convenience to greet them as equals and comrades deserving of every dignity rather than mere test subjects, with a standing invitation to visit Krakkobulus as guests and friends.  The stars are the right of all beings, and they may partake of our knowledge as freely as we may wish to partake of theirs. 

If it weren’t for their distressing habit of defecating without care or apparent possibility of restraint, we dare to venture that we couldn’t have found a more perfect neighbour. 

PS: It is the formal recommendation of mission command that SH Squirb, in addition to being entered into the historical record, should be relieved of his piloting license. 

Well. 

On Wednesday morning, Carol went swimming. 

On Thursday morning, they searched her home. 

On Friday morning, they put out bulletins.

On Saturday morning, they brought out the dogs.

On Sunday morning, they dredged the lake.

But they never did see her again. 

***

Ellen said it was all her fault anyways, as they ate sandwiches made with dry brown bread and sad bologna.  “You don’t swim in the lake,” she told them.  “My grandmother said that.  It’s not safe.”
“Why?” asked Sarah, who asked annoying questions like that.

“Yeah, why?” asked Josh, who’d never met a bandwagon he hadn’t boarded.

“Because it isn’t safe,” said Ellen loftily, who was the oldest by two months and knew it and knew that they knew that. 

“Are there sharp rocks?” asked Sarah. 

“Are there sharks?” asked Josh. 

“Are there currents?”
“Are there giant octopuses?”

“It isn’t safe,” repeated Ellen.  “You’ll understand it when you’re older.”

And they didn’t, but they thought they would, so that was all fine and done and it was back to comparing mustard with mayonnaise for another few years.   

***

On Monday morning, Jeff went fishing. 

On Tuesday morning, they called his friends.

On Wednesday morning, they filed warrants.

On Thursday morning, they interrogated suspects. 

On Friday morning, they went out in boats.

But they never could find out what had happened. 

***

Sarah’s mother held the wake at her house, which everyone said was very brave of her and she nodded and kept a stiff upper lip and cried in her bedroom when it was over where nobody knew, not even Sarah. 

“He was so careful,” Sarah was telling Ellen and her grandmother, who was made of driftwood with beach-glass for eyes and a tumbled bun of waterweed hair.  “He always wore a lifejacket.”
“Jackets can come loose,” said Ellen’s grandmother.  “Or not be fastened properly.”

“He had his whistle around his neck,” said Sarah.
“Necklaces can come loose.  Or be snapped.”

“He promised he’d come back for lunch,” persisted Sarah. 

Ellen’s grandmother reached out with one long, wave-beaten arm and stroked her hair with softness.  “Promises can break,” she said.  “Or be false.”

Sarah didn’t even wait to get to her bedroom.  Josh brought her little trays of snacks until she stopped on the outside, and on the inside she kept along for a few more years.

***

On Saturday morning, Helen went for a walk. 

On Sunday morning, they searched the trails.

On Monday morning, they combed the hills.

On Tuesday morning, they dug through the beaches.

On Wednesday morning, they turned searchlights on the water.

But nobody knew where she’d gone. 

***

“She went down to the water,” said Ellen with a sigh.  “By herself.  At age eighty-seven.  Why do some people get so stubborn?  When you’re old you can’t be too afraid to ask for help.”
“But what’s so dangerous about walking by the water?” asked Sarah, who hated this conversation almost as much as studying for exams but not quite.  It had been a long time since Jeff went fishing. 

“Yeah,” chimed in Josh, who was upside-down against the wall reading his book wrong-way-up.

“It’s harder when you’re old,” said Ellen dismissively.  “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You said that about the lake and then you never told us,” said Sarah, unhelpfully.

“You’ll understand that when you’re older too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah right.”
Ellen threw a pillow, missed, and hit Josh, who fell over and landed feet-first in Sarah’s breadbasket, and they were all much too busy to think of this sort of thing for quite a few years. 

***

On Thursday morning, Josh jumped from the dock. 

On Friday morning, they took his computer. 

On Saturday morning, they talked to his professors. 

On Sunday morning, they asked his doctor. 

On Monday morning, they kept looking for a body.

But there still wasn’t one to be found. 

***

They were quiet around Sarah at work for weeks, and she spoke loudly to fill the space.  Managers told her she could talk to them, and she smiled and refused to.  People gave her carefully-written condolences and she took them with a light heart and dropped them in her trash. 

Ellen and her grandmother came to visit a little later.  Ellen was taller; her grandmother was shorter but still remarkably unwrinkled and very polished by the world and its weather.  They ate crackers and drank cool water from large glasses. 

“He wasn’t going to do that,” Sarah told them. 

“You never know,” said Ellen, nodding wisely. 

“People can change,” said her grandmother.  “Or be secretive.”
“He was like that in his freshman year,” said Sarah.  “He told me.  I helped him, and helped him get help.”
“He never wanted to trouble you again,” decided Ellen.

“Problems can reappear.  Or resurge.”
“His medication had been stable for two years,” said Sarah.  “He’d just gotten engaged.”
“Life is funny that way,” mused Ellen. 

“You can’t understand everything.  Or maybe when you’re older.”

Sarah drank her glass of water.  Two months didn’t seem like so much anymore, she realized. 

“Maybe,” she said.  “Maybe.”

***

On Tuesday morning, Sarah went boating.

On Wednesday morning, they found her boat.

On Thursday morning, they arrested her boyfriend.

On Friday morning, they released him on bail.

On Saturday morning, they brought out sonar. 

But not one thing appeared. 

***

The teeth that snagged at Sarah pulled her down, down, down, clamped hard.  But they didn’t reach through her clothing, which was layered for the fall chill.  And the bottom layer was a wetsuit. 

The water that closed over Sarah turned blue, bluer, black, dark as the dead zone at the lakebed where nothing breathed.  But she was safe from it, because around her back was packed a rebreather, and around her neck hung the mask.  And her fingers were fast. 

The bright sparkling beach-glass eyes that swung at Sarah from the dark on the end of the long, muscular neck were invisible and hungry.  But that was why she had the little stick with a magnum cartridge loaded into its tip, which she swung into them.  And the eyes vanished, and so did the teeth beneath them, and the neck swung free and wild and empty. 

The teeth in Sarah’s clothing tried to peel loose and a sad moan filled her, so long, so tragic, so empty.  But Sarah had done her crying in the living room years before, and in a sheath at her side she had a knife, which she pulled it out and resheathed it behind her over and over until her arm ached.  And the wailing stopped. 

It took a long time to break the surface, for the black to turn into bright cheery blue, a different blue from a different day than she’d gone under.  Time is funny at the bottom of a lake, and doubly so when you’re trying to avoid the bends. 

Sarah kicked back to shore with her feet, arms still aching.  She watched the sky and she understood now. 

But not because she was older.  Ellen had been wrong about that. 

***

On Sunday morning, the water was calm.

On Sunday noon, the sun was warm.

On Sunday evening, the sky was ablaze.

On Sunday night, the stars were bright.

Come Monday and it all happened again.

And over and over and over.