













 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
 MELUSINE REVISITING
   by Gay Bost
 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


   The birds had alerted him to what lay on the beach. Sea gulls
 swooped and landed, only to rise, screaming, for the beach. He'd
 left his glasses on the hood of the pickup and didn't care to go back
 for them. He didn't really need them to see. They were for distance.
 He'd bridge the span between what lay on the beach and himself soon
 enough; an elongated lump of something, seaweed covered, more than
 likely a dead seal. But the sea gulls didn't so much fight over the
 spoils as fuss and announce to each other, in excited voices, that
 something special was there. He likened the sound patterns to those
 they made on days he scattered potato peels from the catwalk of the
 lighthouse.

   As he neared it he thought the seal might be alive. The gulls
 danced around the body and chattered at it. He could imagine them
 encouraging it to go home. The closer he got, though, the less sure he
 was of his impressions. Whatever it was seemed to be partially wrapped
 in a dark coat or blanket. "Dead body," he thought, "Junkie or victim
 of life gone sour." It happened, if the tide was just right.

   His dread rose like bile, threatening to choke him. There'd
 be the sheriff's office and the county coroner tracking up and down
 the beach, banging on his door for coffee and answers he couldn't
 possibly have. He wasn't fond of the new sheriff, great hulking oaf
 with tobacco wadded into his cheek, constantly casting about, looking
 for somewhere to spit. Not in his lighthouse.

   He stood over it and looked down, vision half clouded by the
 thought of inquiries. They always brought a rash of questions about
 a man who preferred to spend his time alone with books and machinery.
 Like some bell going off in the heads of widows, divorcees and
 spinsters, they'd remember, the women would, that there was a man,
 alone, in dire need of baked goods and solace.

   "Now look what you've done," he accused the body. He squatted,
 sitting on his heals, talking to the thing. Sand matted hair glittered
 in the morning sun. It was, indeed, wrapped in a blanket, or the thing
 was tied on somehow, a lightweight shawl sort of thing with bedraggled
 fringe. Seaweed had woven itself through arms and around feet, wreathed
 itself around the neck. He reached over and pulled on the covering,
 rolling the body onto its back. Female, then. The blanket covered most
 of her, seaweed the rest, but the unmistakable swell of breasts beneath
 told him gender. He brushed the hair away from the face and tilted his
 head.

   "Indeterminate age," he pronounced. He looked more closely at
 the inside of one arm. No needle tracks. "Who knows," he said to it,
 her. "Was life a bit too much for you, then?"

   The fingers curled, loosely, weakly.

   The shock set him back and toppled him onto the sand. He
 caught himself on both hands, set behind him into the harsh grains.
 He stared at the fingers. They curled a bit more, the hand moving a
 fraction of an inch. He scrabbled forward and lifted her at the
 shoulders, peeled back one eyelid. Blue gray and very much alive, it
 focused on him as if she hadn't the strength to open it herself, but
 now that someone else ad she could see. She blinked.

   He felt for a her pulse at her throat, wanting to know how weak
 she might be, whether to call an ambulance or get her up himself. She
 blinked again, tears rolling from her eyes. Her heart beat strongly,
 though it seemed rather slow.

   "Well you're alive," he said. "Did you want to be?"

   She tried to speak. He could feel a spasm beneath his supporting
 arm. He rolled her onto her side, though he thought she must have lost
 most of the sea water while she was on her stomach. A patch of slickly
 gleaming something lay on the sand where her face had been.

   "Well, shall we dance?"  he asked, standing. He thought he saw her
 torso shaking as he bent to lift her, seaweed, blanket and all. "I'll
 lead."

   He felt her laugh, then, a quivering, pitiful laugh released
 to rattle through what must be a very painful throat. She'd taken
 water into her lungs and kept it. Pneumonia would probably follow
 her survival.

   The gulls scolded him, running alongside, screaming at him
 from the air, hovering as he took her back to his world and out of
 theirs. "You've made friends and influenced people in your stay here,"
 he told her, looking into her face. "I don't suppose you'll get any
 lighter as we go along, though."  She'd already acquired ten pounds.

   His arms ached by the time he got her to the pickup and set
 her on the tailgate. He propped her there against a barrel and went
 into the shed, seeking an old coffee cup he knew was there, and water.

   He returned to find her head slumped forward onto her chest, the
 fingers of one hand tangled in seaweed. He lifted her chin with one
 hand and put the cup to her lips, carefully tilting and wetting her
 mouth. He eyes flew open. She had decided she would live, it seemed.
 She sipped, slowly, licking her cracked lips often, stopping to
 swallow in obvious pain, sipping again.

   "I'll call into town and get you some help," he told her when she
 seemed revived enough to hold herself erect and help him hold the cup.

   Her fingers racked across the back of his hand, and "No," she
 whispered harshly. "No."  She frowned. He looked into the eyes so
 like a cold morning sea seen at a distance. She didn't plead. She
 didn't beg. She instructed. 'No'.

   His own brow furrowed, multiple lines in his high forehead. "Hmm,"
 was all he said. She finished the cup of water, looking over its edge
 at him, sip after slow sip, seeming to know what she was about.
 "Shall I call a cab for you, then?"  he inquired.

   She tried to clear her throat, undoubtedly ready with a
 scathing remark, but winced, instead. She sighed, an ironic little
 smile shaping her lips. He nodded.

   "I'll get you some clothes. You seem to have ruined your gown."

   The smile grew.

   He shook his head and turned toward the lighthouse.

   "Towel," she croaked, her hand at her throat. She was picking
 sea weed from her blanket wrap with the other.

   "But of course."  Fortunately he kept a set of work clothes in the
 cabinet just inside the door. Unfortunately, there were no towels. The
 bathroom was in his living quarters one level up. He hadn't realized
 how much the burdened trek back up the beach had cost his legs until
 he took the stairs two at a time. He stopped at the first landing and
 massaged his calves, thinking, wondering if he'd lost his mind. He
 fully intended to deposit the woman on the cot he kept in the control
 room, fully intended to drag it down from that elevation and ensconce
 her in his living quarters. But not until she'd shed some of her
 dirt. That being his main concern, he filled a plastic bucket with
 warm water from the kitchen sink while he went to get the towel.

   She'd managed to loose most of the larger strands of seaweed. They
 littered the tailgate. She'd pulled her hair out of her face and
 tucked some of the matted strands behind her ears. She'd also untied
 or otherwise unfastened the blanket. She had been, of course, quite
 naked beneath it. He looked away, watching his feet, watching the
 water steam and slosh in t he bucket. He hadn't expected to come back
 and find her sitting primly in lace and woolen skirts, but the sight
 of her sitting upright, shoulders squared, healthy chest bared ass he
 brushed sand from herself, stirred him. It was the shock, of course.
 That, or nights dreaming of a woman coming to him from the sea. He
 lifted the bucket onto the tailgate and handed her the towel, pointedly
 looking at her face.

   She extended her hand to him, palm down, expecting something his
 mind could not, at present deal with. He looked at the hand. She rolled
 her eyes, a sign her interpreted as exasperation, and took hold of his
 forearm, jiggling forward to get down from her perch. The jiggling
 didn't help. She jiggled quite nicely. He assisted her, then, her hand
 grasping his arm tightly, depending on him to support her weight as she
 dismounted. She stood, braced against the edge of the tailgate, firm
 thighs suddenly long and shapely, the blanket abandoned totally.

   She lifted her face and croaked, her voice sounding a
 bit stronger, "Will you play mother?"

   "What?"  He was at a loss.

   "Pour," she instructed, stretching her neck and tilting her
 head upward.

   "Of course. Sorry."  Lifting the bucket he doused her with half
 the contents, watching her move her hands swiftly over her body. She
 turned, then, presenting him with a previously unseen view. There
 were marks on her back, a waffling, as if she'd lain on some kind of
 grate and been bruised just beneath the skin. He poured again,
 watching the muscles in her back move as she lifted her arms and ran
 her hands through her hair. She picked the drop splattered towel up
 and applied it to her hair. He warred with himself, then, wanting
 desperately to watch her jiggle from the front and needing very much
 not to take his eyes from the view of her rear.

   "You've been injured," he managed to say, swallowing suddenly
 and discovering he hadn't done that in a while.

   "You should see the other guy," she said. She turned and handed
 him the towel, plucking the shirt he had brought off of his shoulder
 where he'd draped it. She buttoned it with trembling fingers, obviously
 at her end. "Now what?"  Each time she spoke she swallowed hard and
 winced.

   "Breakfast, madam?"  he asked, recovering, extending his arm in a
 gentlemanly manner.

   "Coffee?"  Surprised at her tone, he angled his head to look into
 her face. There had been a desperate plea in that voice.

   "Pots and pots of it," he assured her. "And only one flight of
 stairs."

   She groaned and stepped away from the tailgate. Her knees buckled.
 He caught her, an arm wrapped around her waist, tightly. She smiled,
 ruefully, up at him.

   He found himself gazing into her eyes, aware of her having spoken,
 but lost as to what she'd asked. She waited, expectant. She winced as
 she prepared to repeat her question. "Bathroom?"  she prompted.

   "Ah," he exclaimed and supplied the information.

   She rose slowly, but on her own, and left the table. A cup of coffee,
 steaming, sat before her next a nibbled piece of toast. He looked at
 his own cup, held tightly between both hands, and swallowed audibly.
 He didn't remember coming up the stairs, pouring coffee, making toast,
 or seating her at the table. The cup in his own hands was half full.
 He stared into it as if the lost time would be revealed to him within
 it's depths. She took sugar, no cream. Or she had, today, for the
 energy. There was a hard lump in his throat.

   Behind him the bathroom door closed. In the silence he heard the
 light switch being flipped. The shower door creaked open and the
 water began to beat against the enclosure walls. He remained still,
 hearing everything. There was a sense of waiting, a calm before a
 storm, perhaps, but unlike any he had known before. He had a sudden
 urge to bolt up the stairs to the watch room and scan the weather
 reports. He felt certain something should be happening, something was
 missing.

   She seemed to take an unusual amount of time in the shower. He grew
 concerned that she had passed out. He thought he would go to the door
 and call to her, but found himself unable to do so, unable to do
 little more than stare into his coffee, waiting. He occupied himself
 with thoughts of work, of routine chores awaiting his attention, of
 logging in to the forecast channels, of storm clouds rolling in from
 the west the night before. Yes, that was why he had been prowling the
 beach; looking for storm wrack. It seemed he had found it.

   Suddenly, without forewarning, her hand was on his shoulder.
 The sense of waiting lifted. With the speed of a summer squall the
 swiftness of lightening striking a silent headland, he found himself
 with an erection. The hand upon his shoulder applied pressure, as
 she stopped to catch her breath. The muscles in his back stiffened, a
 steel hard response to her need. The moment passed. Her hand lifted
 and she moved to the chair, collapsing into it with a self satisfied
 grin.

   She shared her triumph with him as guilelessly as a child. In
 her hand she held a comb, one she had found in the bathroom. Her face
 glowed softly, clean. Her tangled mass of hair hung down the back of
 her neck, soaking the shirt. Her arms lifted to her head, throwing
 her breasts into relief inside the shirt. He swallowed, again,
 knowing he had to get away from her before he revealed his own need.

   He rose, mumbling, "I have work."

   She stopped her struggles with her hair and held the comb
 out to him, eyes gently pleading.

   "All right," he assented, taking the comb from her and going
 round behind her. She'd made the mess worse, washing it, more than
 likely scrubbing at it with vigorous movements. He closed his eyes
 and imagined her doing that, breasts uplifted and jiggling with the
 movement, all the while his hands touching her damp hair, dragging
 the comb through the tangles. She sat patiently, enduring his inexpert
 touch, her head bent forward. The ends had begun to dry and curl by
 the time he'd finished, yet he continued. At last her hand came up
 and found his, stopping him, gently.

   "Long time," she whispered, the harshness of her voice beginning
 to smooth out.

   "Yes," he answered. "A long time."  He tossed the comb onto the
 table. "I'll bring a cot down in a little while. There's a bed just
 the other side of the bathroom. Get some rest. I'll wake you."

   "Thank you," she said, turning to look up at him. She looked like
 she would say more, but thought better of it. At his nod she turned
 back to the table, picked up the cold toast and began nibbling at the
 edges.

   He set the coffee pot on the table before he left, knowing she
 was still too weak for unnecessary activity. The shower had exhausted
 her. "You clean up nice," he offered over his shoulder.

                                *  *  *

   She dreamt strange dreams and woke with a start, a cold sweat
 stinging in the scratches on her back. She rose stiffly, wondering
 if there was, at least, one muscle that hadn't been strained in her
 ordeal. There were thick drapes on one wall, tiny slashes of light
 breaking through where the fabric was worn. She wanted sunlight,
 wanted the day to warm her, wanted . . . . She parted the drapes and
 found herself looking at the sea through a window which occupied most
 of the wall.

   "It's a lighthouse," she reminded herself, and wondered what a
 lighthouse keeper did. Surely there were electronics and mechanics
 to operate the light. There must be a control room of some kind. She
 imagined something like the bridge of a great ship. She knew nothing
 of the area, knew nothing of fishing fleets or pleasure craft, nothing
 of the people who lived this life. She barely knew the sea from which
 she had come. There was a taste to it, an oiliness she found
 repugnant. The gulls, though, she felt she knew. She smiled at their
 eternal antics.

   The tide was coming in. Something below had attracted their
 interest, their avarice, some morsel the oceans had tossed up for their
 amusement and now threatened to take back. A dead fish, perhaps, washed
 forward to tantalize them, to test their agility and intelligence. She
 felt the sea did that, especially to its inhabitants. There was a long
 history of such.

   The room itself drew her interest. Books lined one wall, neatly
 arranged, their bindings even with the edges of the shelves. A set
 here, their even color and size somehow reassuring compared to the
 riot of color and diversity of sizes displayed elsewhere. A small
 desk, a comfortable chair, a table with a lamp and various personal
 items scattered about its surface. The kitchen and bath had been
 spartan, practical. Here, in his sanctum, were the signs of his
 presence.

   She thought of his hands in her hair, the steady strength in
 his arms and the consideration he had shown a stranger. Lonely,
 perhaps. Lonely enough to risk the invasion of his sanctum? And
 then she remembered the humor. She chuckled. Dance, indeed! She
 crawled back into the bed, snuggling into his pillow, wondering
 what his dreams held, what essence had soaked into the soft downy
 feathers beneath her own head.

                                *  *  *

   Damned if she hadn't stripped! The shirt he'd loaned lay at the
 end of the bed. She'd mussed his covers and pulled them loose at the
 foot. Her hair spread out over his pillow, half covering her sleeping
 face. She slept restless, evidently, sheets twisted and tucked, a
 corner grasped in long fingers.

   He stood in the doorway, the cot folded and tucked under his
 arm. It seemed a ludicrous thing of canvas and wood, odd angles drawn
 together, poised to attack the floor space that was chosen for it. He
 set it against the wall, meaning to put it up in the kitchen later.
 He wished he had the key to Rob's room, then. He'd let her sleep in
 his relief's bed and ruin his covers. The cot seemed so small
 considering the way she'd sprawled and turned in the bed. He doubted
 she'd be able to stay on the smaller piece of furniture.

   There'd been an advisory, a tropical depression threatened to
 come ashore in the south, scattering its tempers along the coast to
 invade his domain. He wanted his bed. He would be up most of the night
 and he wanted his bed, now, for a nap. He watched her breathing,
 watched the curve of hip and leg beneath the sheets from across the
 room. He'd feed her, again. Cook something nutritious and wake her.
 Soup. A hearty stock with meat and vegetables. He thought there might
 be something made up in the freezer. A chowder. Yes. And yet he stood,
 watching her breathe, her shapely arm stretched out, the long fingers
 curled in dream, grasping at who-knew-what. She drew a knee up in her
 slumbers, tucking it into her stomach. The resultant curve sent his
 pulse racing. Damned if she hadn't stripped! He turned and nearly
 walked into the door facing, demanding of himself, "Soup!"

   The rattling of pans would wake her, the smell of food draw
 her from the room and save him the turmoil of bending over her as
 she slept. He rattled and dropped, cussed severely in his agitation,
 banging spoons and plates, envisioning her coming to the door, rushing
 naked into the kitchen to see what was the matter. Instead, a drowsy
 eyed face peered round the door, disappeared only to return, frowning.
 A moment later she came out, the shirt buttoned to the throat.

   She went to the sink and turned the tap, getting herself a drink
 of water, filling the mug she had used earlier and leaning against
 the counter to watch him, silent.

   "There's a storm coming up coast," he said, standing at the
 stove, banging a metal spoon against the interior of a metal pot.

   "I see that," she said, smiling. Her voice was a throaty velvet,
 a lilt of laughter barely concealed. He felt flush. "Tonight?" she
 asked, holding his eyes.

   "If it moves as predicted."

   "Who predicts the storms here?"

   Something in her question disturbed him. He scowled. "The National
 Weather Service, of course."

   "Ah, I see."  She sipped at her water, looking every bit as if she
 didn't see, at all. She took a seat at the table, sliding the chair
 across the floor without scraping it.

   He left the spoon to rest on the counter, wiped his right hand
 on his pant leg and extended it to her, "I don't believe we've been
 formally introduced," he said. "Ethan Quarrels, at your service."

   "Melusine," she returned, lacing her fingertips in his palm,
 touching the inside of her thumb to the back of his fingers in a way
 he found both disturbing and highly sensual.

   "A stage name?" he asked, smiling slyly.

   "Pardon me?" She looked up at him with genuine perplexity.

   "The name: Melusine. Is that a stage name?"

   "No."

   He felt a chill sweep across his shoulders as he attempted to look
 deeper into her sea gray eyes. He could have sworn they had been blue
 that morning. "There's soup and then I'm to bed. I've brought a cot
 down for you."

   "Yes, I saw it. Thank you."

   He returned to the stove, dishing up their meal, feeling something
 trying to dig itself free from his memory. Her presence, her quiet
 regard seemed to prevent that.

   "Thank you, Ethan," she said, smiling, as he set the bowls on the
 table and handed her a spoon.

                                *  *  *

   He stood on the catwalk, listening to the ever present pulse of
 the sea, its life a promise. A solid bank of fog stood offshore 5000
 yards or so, more a wall of security than a threat. He'd walked this
 way a thousand times, a thousand nights, just so. That fog bank never
 came any nearer. A slight chill alerted him to the fact that he was
 naked, the cold metal railing a line of ice just below his right knee.
 Something flashed along the shoreline. A familiar warmth spread
 through his loins. She was coming. The flash was Her pendant, silver
 nestled between ample breasts, bobbing as She drifted above the sands
 toward the lighthouse.

   He knew Her face, knew ever line, every contour, every tiny
 smile and frown wrinkle. He knew the scent of Her hair, the taste of
 Her lips, the dewy honey texture of Her love. She came to him often,
 here, in the dark, drawn to him, drawn to the lighthouse, by his need.
 He was often alone, but never lonely, until he walked the catwalk. The
 She would come. In eager anticipation he watched Her. She would look
 up, soon, and see him. She would smile, brush the hair back from Her
 forehead and crane Her neck as She blew a kiss up to him.

   And then She would run. His excitement would mount as She
 slammed the door open, in Her haste leaving it open. He would run to
 his room, fling the door open and find Her there, waiting, her arms
 held out for him, Her thighs parted, Her own desire glistening in the
 fog misted moonlight as it seeped in through the observation window.
 He thought, tonight, he would run ahead of Her, not wait for Her to
 look up. He left the surety of the rail and made his way back to his
 bed, smoothing the sheets, laying himself upon them, his erection held
 loosely in his fingers. Any minute She would come through the door. She
 might laugh at him, but She would come. She might tease him over his
 anxious behavior, but She would hold her arms out to him and drawn him
 into Her depths.

   He stroked himself, once, just as the door came open. She
 stood, long dark hair still adrift in the wind of Her movement,
 laughing. Her eyes shone with a memory of the moon, delighted. Full
 breasts rose and fell with Her breaths. Her creamy thighs whispered
 passionate promises as She walked across the floor.

   Something jarred him. Something was wrong. He sat up, his
 fingers still curled around his manhood. She'd never touched the
 floor before! She smiled, strangely, unfamiliar curves giving an
 impish character to the face. A face subtly changed. She came to stand
 at the foot of the bed, body contours changed. She licked her lips,
 breathing deeply through flared nostrils. She watched him, Her dark
 eyes, too light, drawn to his hand, the hardness within it. They rose
 to meet his, a question She had never asked before. He blinked, once,
 twice, trying to get Her back into focus. She should flow to him, her
 love a sweet fluid to quench his thirst. Instead his mouth was dry.

   His fingers curled more tightly, stroking slowly.

   "Long time," She whispered, drifting to the window, staring into
 the fog.

   "No," he said, not liking the conversation. "Come to bed. Come
 away from the window."

   "There is a castle," She whispered. "I thought this was a
 castle." She turned from the window, Her back against the glass,
 Her form outlined by moonlight and the eternal fog bank. "Too long?"
 She asked. "What have you done with the sun?"  She came to the bed
 then, stood beside him, reached to touch the back of his hand as it
 moved up and down. She leaned to kiss his brow, whispering something
 he couldn't quite hear against his temple.

                                *  *  *

   "What?"

   "I said `the fog is rolling in fast'". Melusine stood in the open
 doorway, her hair a wild halo of light against the brighter light of
 the kitchen behind her.

   Guiltily, he looked down his own length, relieved to find himself
 covered. "All right. I'll be right out."

   The door closed behind her. He stared at the solid rectangle, the
 memory of a dream gone awry fading swiftly. He exhaled a breath he
 hadn't realized he'd been holding and looked at the shrouded remnants
 of an afternoon sun as it grew dimmer. He had no time to wonder why
 his mouth was so dry, no time to think about the visitor he had taken
 from the beach that morning, no time to dwell upon the unrelieved
 tension which lived in his groin. On automatic reflex he dressed,
 left the dream, left the room, left the strange taste of change behind
 to tend to his job.

   Melusine sat on the edge of her cot, bare legs dangling comically
 from the wooden bar rail. Her toes buffed the floor in little circles.
 He paused briefly in his rush to tell her she could come up and watch
 the operation if she had a mind, later, if she felt strong enough. She
 smiled a weary little smile and nodded. The was an indefinable sadness
 about her, but he had no time for that, either.

   The radio was chattering ceaselessly. Of course some fool had
 gone out, gambling against the predictions, gambling against the
 storm, the fog, the sea. His light, a beacon reaching deep into the
 gloom strobed far past the boat's location, a visual guide for fools
 who took their navigation lessons too lightly, forgetting where the
 land was. The Coast Guard was on this one. It was early. Much later
 and this lost wanderer would be left to drift while those in greater
 need and danger were tended to. They must have been close to his
 location at the onset. Ethan scanned the weather reports, the radar
 feed and the text screens.

   This was his most vital duty. Most lighthouses were fully
 automated, requiring only maintenance and repairs. Most keepers were
 electricians and general handymen. Many were students and part time
 shift workers, the care and feeding of a tradition a mere part of their
 daily rounds. But here, on the point, a relay station and weather watch
 had been established. Here Ethan's special needs were met, multiple
 talents utilized. Here he could recluse 30 days on and 30 days off.

   The storm had decided to remain at sea, keep her tendrils to
 herself and spread only temperature variables, creating the fog,
 and keeping him at his station through the still night.

   Sometime in the small hours of the morning he was startled by
 the rumbling roar of medium sized boulders being ground against each
 other. She'd found the elevator. Rarely used, its routine maintenance
 was often overlooked. The cables needed greasing, had for months. Its
 basic operation was unhindered, but within the upright shaft of the
 lighthouse the mechanical objections it made to movement were amplified.
 The door opened upon a slightly chagrined woman.

   She'd brought sweet rolls and the coffee pot. She had them and two
 coffee cups arranged on a large tray. He rose to help her with them.
 "This contraption sounds like an old ship being drug along the deep
 reefs!"  she exclaimed. "One of those huge metal rust buckets they
 sunk after the naval wars were over."

   He noticed she'd taken some care with her hair, tying portions of
 it up and back with kitchen twine. He settled her into an observers
 chair and pulled his own nearer, suddenly revisited by the alteration
 his dream had taken. Something in the shape of her face, the nature
 of her attentive regard. He had almost named the differences to
 himself when she spoke.

   "This is all so fascinating," her fingers fluttered like an
 injured bird over the panels. "You're not alone at all, here."  Her
 delight transformed her, he thought. She was quite pretty. Her lips,
 quaked in childlike pleasure, only heightened his awareness of her
 charms. She watched the radar sweep, enraptured. "These are the storm
 predictors, then?"  She'd used her chin to indicate the screen, the
 sleek curve of her neck brought to his attention.

   He'd thought her hair brown, but in the well lit vault of the
 observation chamber he found rich wheat-colored highlights. Her skin
 was rather pale, but he formed the impression that as the sun darkened
 her skin it would lighten her hair. She turned blue green eyes on him
 and smiled.

   "Yes, in part," he answered. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm
 used to thinking before I speak. Having someone here, asking questions,
 expecting a timely answer to a question is a bit of an adjustment for
 me."

   "I understand," she said, reaching a hand out to him.

   He looked closely at the long fingers, the neatly paired nails,
 the tiny bruises and scratches on the back of the hand. "Do you?" he
 wondered aloud. He took the hand, drew his chair nearer to hers and
 reached for the other one. One of her knees touched his, bare skin
 against twill. He thought, then, of a three pronged plug inserted into
 a wall outlet, the invisible force of an unseen generator surging
 through the contacts of hands and leg.

   "Do you?"

   Her eyes moved in a slow circle, taking in his face, settling on
 his lips. "Yes, I do," she whispered, the hush of a fog cushioned night
 seemly part of her speech apparatus. She squeezed his hands, minimally
 before releasing them.

   She curled her legs beneath her in the chair, a sudden shift,
 like a bird settling into a rocky perch to watch, eyes blinking, head
 turning at each flash of light or burst of noise from the radios. The
 tails of the shirt covered her thighs in spots and exposed more in
 others. He toyed with the idea of fetching her a lap cover and decided
 to allow himself the view upon occasion.

   "Am I going to get an explanation of how you came to be washed
 up on my beach?" He swiveled round to his keyboard, entering an
 inquiry. A prolonged silence drew his attention back to her.

   She seemed suddenly helpless, lost. He considered it might be
 an affectation but discarded that idea. Her lower lip twitched, once,
 before she answered. "Do you really need one?"

   "Are you an escapee" A criminal? A wanted woman? A wayward wife
 gone missing?"

   "I hope not!"  she exclaimed, chuckling. She jiggled, the tails
 of the shirt riding up her thighs, slipping loose from where they had
 been tucked beneath her.

   "And what am I to do with you? Granted, you don't eat much, but you
 don't seem to be able to dance, either."

   "You haven't asked since yesterday, and, at the time, I was a
 little worn out from my last partner." She gestured toward the open
 sea, invisible beyond the fog.

   The great light stroked the density, silently moving on its well
 oiled mechanics. "What shall I do with you?"  he persisted.

   "Are you afraid the townspeople will think you've taken a
 sea-bride from the foam? Will they whisper about the lighthouse keeper
 and the storm's waif?" Her body attitude was relaxed, her amused smile
 conspiratorial in nature, as if they two shared a secret beyond the
 ken of those who dwelt away from the constant pulse of the ocean,
 wrapped in cozy fires and shielded by the gray light of television,
 sheltered from the timeless disturbance of the wave.

   "There is that," he admitted.

   She sighed, a disappointment that he wouldn't, evidently, play the
 game she had set for him. "Well, then, I shall be gone when the fog
 lifts." She shrugged her shoulders forward in a gesture of dismissal.
 "Just think of me as a stray cat come to your door begging fishtails
 and milk."

   "One did," he commented, thinking she fit the profile quite well,
 curled and perched in the chair, watching him watch the world. She
 begged petting, too. "Rob took her home."

   "Rob?" she leaned forward, ready for a story.

   "My relief. I do a bit of traveling in my off time. There's another
 bedroom in the living area. I don't know if you've noticed. That's
 the relief's room. He hasn't settled in as much as I have, but then
 he has a home in the world, where I don't.

   "You, too, are sea tossed?"

   "My dear, if you only knew." He attended the boards, then,
 suddenly dedicated to the monitoring devices. He didn't tell her he
 was building a home even more remote and isolated than this solitary
 lighthouse. He didn't tell her about families lost to the variances
 of lives set at different paces and angles. He didn't tell her . . . .

   Once more her hands were on his shoulders. Both of them. This
 time she didn't seek support, but gave. It was a strange feeling, the
 warmth which flowed through her hands, trailing along his tense muscles,
 falling like sheeting water onto his chest, warm and soothing, cascading
 into his lower back and buttocks. Her hands moved to the base of his
 neck, fingers stroking knotted muscles and seeking the loosening of
 corded tendons. They found their way into his hairline, walking at the
 back of his head. He heard her sigh outward, deeply, missed the intake
 of breath that should have come, found himself waiting for it.

   Her fingers ran above his ears, pressing lightly in a pulsing
 rhythm that matched his own heartbeat. He loathed the thought of her
 stopping, needed desperately to turn and face her. Did she read his
 thoughts, he wondered, reach the deep pain of loss, the longing, touch
 the comfort of his dreams? The hands dropped to his shoulders and
 held there, still, before moving downward onto his back. He felt a
 restive sort of peace, like the moments, in his dreams, just before
 his dream Lady looked up. She worked the large muscle groups, wide
 ranging curves, kneading fingers, heavy pressure with the sides of her
 hands, pulling grief away like a vine wrapped round a trellis. In a
 moment, he thought, he would turn and pull her to him, indeed taking a
 sea bride from the foam, at least for the moment.

   She tugged at the tail of his shirt, pulling it from his pants.
 She pushed it up, exposing his back, laying her flattened palms just
 above his waist, working tissue and muscles upward in undulating waves,
 until a roll of fabric rode his shoulders. It was then that he felt
 her lips upon his skin, the moist tip of her tongue centered as she
 kissed the lower region of his right shoulder blade.

   He felt her breath hovering, awaiting his reaction, perhaps.
 She took slow pains to rub fingertips into the place she had kissed,
 tiny spirals dancing and retreating, before her lips moved on to grace
 another spot. His groin was an agony of delight, his fingers still
 on the panel before him, frozen, stolen from their assigned occupation.
 The kisses comprised his world, the spirals imprinting them into his
 flesh. It was she that stopped the magic, she that grasped his shoulders
 and pulled him around, swiveling on ball bearings made in a far distant
 world. She looked into his eyes as she stepped between his legs, her
 fingers at his throat, stroking the hair which peeked forth. She began
 to unbutton his shirt. He swallowed, suddenly dry mouthed, as in the
 dream he'd had earlier.

   "You've been wandering through my dreams," he stated, speaking
 into her hair as she bent to kiss his chest. His hands came up from
 the chair arms where they'd landed when she turned him. He touched
 the halo of her hair, buried his fingers in the soft mass and willed
 himself not to guide her head toward his throbbing erection. He had
 no doubt she knew it was there, cramped within the cruel confines of
 cloth. She dropped to her knees on the floor, her breasts wedged
 between his thighs, her hands working the muscles of his upper chest
 while he held her head. The warmth which emanated from her fingers
 spread to his thighs, warring with the tension in his groin, soothing,
 quieting, releasing a flow of peace into his lower legs and feet. As
 it surged upward, a swirling rush of desire at his groin, a quickening
 of his pulse, the radio squawked a call.

   Her fingers paused, returning him to his world. He removed his
 hands from her hair and rolled back, twisting to answer. Coast Guard.
 A lost boat, a request for a beacon redirect. He swallowed, grabbed up
 a gulp of cold coffee and groaned. He felt her rise behind him, missed
 her immediately as she left him, heard her footfalls on the stairs,
 going down.

                                *  *  *

   He stood on the catwalk, his eyes closed as he listened to the
 waves ride across the sea floor and crash onto the sand. A solid bank
 of fog stood offshore, a wall which isolated him from unseen horizons.
 He walked, as he had before, watching, waiting, wishing. The fog
 seemed tattered at the moving surface of the ocean, a blanket just
 lifting, or now quite fallen. A chill reminded him that he was naked,
 the cold metal under his hands sending chills up his arms. He saw
 something flash in the distance, something just coming out of the
 water to fall onto the sand. Pain shot through his groin as she fell.

   He gripped the railing, wishing, willing her up, to him. How
 had she come this way, injured, changed, her dark hair falling forward
 to cover her profile as she lay on the beach, sobbing. He wanted to
 vault the railing, fly to her, running, his feet a solid print on an
 otherwise ethereal plane. "You're dreaming," said a voice, so like
 his own he turned to look.

   His reflection stood, mocking, several feet behind him. "You're
 dreaming," it repeated.

   He nodded, an acknowledgment, returning his attention to the
 woman on the beach. She'd risen and was coming slowly across the sands
 toward him, her face lifted, still obscured by the dark hair which had
 fallen over it. She should brush it back. Her hand rose to do so, but
 a gull swooped toward her from nowhere. The hand rose as a shield and
 paused in mid air. The gull landed there, on the back of her hand, like
 a pet. "Of course," he spoke, "she is Lady of the sea."

   "A daughter of the Neptune, submariner, mermaid, delver into
 the depths of Atlantis," prompted the presence behind him.

   He turned, again, ready to confront what appeared to be his double.

   The gull screamed. The fog rolled in, sudden, a mass as solid, or
 more so than the walls of the lighthouse. He looked up with terror,
 realizing the light itself had gone out. No, it was his vision, for
 he could barely see his own hands as he held them up before his face.
 The sobbing reached his ears, then, in that way fog sounds will, near
 and yet so far away.

   The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush
 of water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly,
 and sat up.

   The chill which had lain in his arms became a burning, a flush of
 water too hot from the shower head. He jerked, awake, suddenly, and
 sat up.

   Melusine was sitting cross legged on the foot of his bed,
 her eyes nearly closed. The shirt, now worn for two day lay open,
 revealing the creamy skin of her breasts, her belly, the insides of
 her thighs. Her arms were braced behind her, an open invitation spread
 waiting for him.

   He remembered then, coming down to find her asleep on her cot,
 her back turned, her knees drawn up to her chest. He'd showered and
 gone to bed, the morning sun just starting to thin the fog.

   He'd sat in his chair, considered reading until his head dropped
 onto his chest, picked at the upholstered arms instead, irritating
 himself until, in a flurry of activity he'd pulled a thread loose. Then
 he'd drawn the drapes closed and fallen into bed, his fingers wrapped
 around the semi erection he'd had through the entire shift.

   His chest heaved with the trauma of the dream, with her luscious
 presence, with anger and confusion, with a bit of fear that the light
 had truly gone out, or worse, that his dream lady was wandering the
 beach looking for him.

   Melusine's eyes opened, looked into his, her face devoid of
 expression. She leaned forward, closed the edges of the shirt and
 got off the bed. She walked to the window and pulled back a flap of
 drape, disappeared behind it, bathing in the misting sunlight. "What
 have you done with the sun?" she asked, her tone neither accusing or
 wondering, as if she read, poorly, from a script.

   He wiped at his damp brow and tried to clear his sight.

   She moved suddenly and violently, ripping one drape from the
 curtain rod, tugging on it until it had fallen to the floor. Gulls
 whirled outside the window, their cries muted by the double pains of
 glass. She faced him, her entire demeanor demanding, "What have you
 done with the sun, Ethan?" she hissed, her brows drawn together in
 anger and confusion.

   "I . . ."  he paused, uncertain of her tempers, dismayed by the
 change in her mood since she had touched him in the chamber above.

   "Night fogs and tattered dreams!" she threw at him, coming across
 the room, flying at him on pounding feet.

   "I think the little lady is put out," said his own voice from
 the wall behind him. He twitched, jerked around and saw his own face,
 enlarged, looking at him from the seascape above his bed.

   "Night fogs and tattered dreams," she whispered into the
 hair on his chest, her head cradled there, her hands stroking his
 belly. He grasped the sides of her head, lifted her face and looked
 into it. Her gray green eyes reminded him of something, something
 undifferentiated. Her lips parted, a softly tempting diversion from
 the madness of his layered dreams. A tear rolled from the corner of
 one eye, fell onto his chest.

   "Melusine," he breathed, the word echoing through the layers of
 his dream.

   He woke later, knowing he had overslept, realizing he'd
 forgotten to set an alarm. After grabbing up his pants and jumping
 into them he took the stairs up two at a time, his legs seeming
 endlessly powerful. He slammed a hand on the controls, reading quickly
 in the bright sunlight, the report on the light itself. No problem,
 there. Relieved, he took the stairs at twos and threes, searching for
 his house guest, sure he must have awakened her with his dash through
 the kitchen.

   He found a pot of coffee on the stove, still hot. An opened
 carton of eggs sat on the counter next the stove, grease already
 scooped into a cold skillet. Her cot was folded neatly, leaning against
 a wall, the shirt draped over it. Something cold and heavy sunk at the
 pit of his stomach, drawing his testicles upward into his body, seeking
 a warmth they could find no other way.

   He vaulted the railing and dropped onto the first landing, his
 descent so rapid he surprised himself when he reached the exterior
 door and flung it open, flooding the anteroom with sunlight.

   Something fluttered near, screaming. He disregarded it, a foolish
 gull come searching for scraps, others hovering, waiting for news. He
 had become a refuge for the lazier birds. He resented their intrusion
 at the moment, flinging his arms about his head and running onto the
 beach.

   He must look a madman to her as she turned from the spigot outside,
 dunking her blanket into a water filled bucket, twisting to look at
 him with a slight smile.

   He came up short, at a loss for words, for thoughts. She stood naked
 in his yard, his hospitality neatly folded in his living quarters, his
 breakfast laid out, fresh coffee brewed, washing her only possession,
 the ragged blanket she had come wrapped in.

   "Good morning, Ethan," she said.

   "You are not my dream!"  he yelled, startling himself, rushing
 to her and taking the blanket from her hands. He flung it into the
 sandy yard, scooped her up and carried her back into the lighthouse,
 his chest expanding with the fervor of his emotions.

   "I never claimed to be, Ethan."  Suddenly he held a crushed child
 in his arms, the tears silent and bitter, pooling in blue depths to
 overflow onto her cheeks. He stopped where he was, just on the first
 step up, and kissed her, his lips a heated pressure against her moist
 coolness. Her arms tightened around his neck, her back arched, the
 backs of her thighs sliding against his forearm. She returned his kiss,
 her tongue seeking past his lips, a passion brought to a life of its
 own. The strength he'd held on the way up to the control room remained
 as he carried her up the stairs and through the kitchen to his room.

   He laid her on his bed and bent to bury his face between the mounds
 of her breasts, afraid to loose contact with her flesh while he took
 his pants off. Her hands caressed the sides of his face, guiding his
 lips to the erect perfection of a nipple. She squirmed, her hips
 sliding over the sheets, her legs parting. His mouth moved downward,
 tongue sliding across her belly, dipping into her navel, as he placed
 his hand beneath her bottom and lifted her pelvis.

   Her fingers trailed along his shoulder as he pressed his mouth to
 her uplifted mound, parted moist lips and tasted her. "Don't move,"
 he said, straightening, undoing his britches one handed, the other
 still holding her above the sheets.

   "I can't make any promises," she said, wiping a tear from her face
 with the back of one hand while her other stole downward and stroked
 the lush growth of hair between her legs. He felt the muscles ripple
 in his hand, felt her buttocks tighten. He let her drop to the bed,
 shoving his pants down over his hips, releasing his straining penis
 to spring upward, kicking the constricting clothing away from his feet
 as they dropped.

   Carefully, slowly, he knelt beside her on the bed, hands
 stroking the soft skin, angling his body to lay next to her, petting
 the length of her like the coat of some great sleek cat. She writhed
 under the attention, stretching sensually to give him access to an area
 she wished touched. His fingers crept to her mound, short, persistent
 strokes, determined, finally parting, again, the hair, the swollen
 lips there, to roam the slick moisture he had so recently tasted.

   His erection pressed against her leg, insistent, commanding. He
 rolled onto her, covering her body with his own, his hips between her
 thighs, his hands grasping her shoulders, his lips pressed wetly
 against the side of her neck. Her wetness, spread, rocked against his
 lower belly, slid, pulsing, there, in tiny movements. He brought
 himself to his knees, loomed over her, bent to suck at one nipple and
 the other, pulling them tighter and tighter across the firm globes of
 her breasts. His groin, his lower belly, his entire being demanded
 entrance. He looked into her face, asking silently, for the
 immediacy.

   Her hips arched, feet pressed against the bed, bringing herself
 to him.

   She moaned, her head thrashing as he entered, the ache that was his
 manhood slowly pushing past each soft barrier, tunneling through the
 contracting passage, succumbing to the force which pulled him in.
 Slowly he plunged, ever falling, ever soaring to her depths. There,
 at her center, he rested, his slow climactic plunge finished, as she
 bucked beneath him, her own rhythms carrying her into other worlds. He
 gave a moment to regret the speed of his descent, yet felt a certain
 pride in the intensity of her response, the abandon with which she
 continued to thrust upward, seeking her own heights over and over, her
 hands grasping at his shoulders. He held himself steady, realizing
 he still maintained, at least, a semi erection for her pleasure.

                                *  *  *

   "She comes to me at night, from the sea. Sometimes during a nap,
 if I have worked through the night," he explained.

   She lay on her side next to him, the warmth of her cupped palm
 on his moving testicles, delighted in what she had referred to as:
 "Full shift-work getting ready for the next order of supplies."
 "From the sea," she repeated, thoughts racing behind sky blue eyes.
 "Like Aphrodite or Venus."

   "Exactly," he said, glad she understood him. "And," he added,
 sheepishly, aglow in her affections, satisfied, for the moment, by
 her shared desires, "She loves me."

   "Ah." Melusine rolled to kiss his side, her fingers loosening
 at his testicles and coming to stroke below his navel, "one may
 not contest with such as She, then."

   "It's a dream, another life," he commented, careful of her
 feelings, since she took care with his. He drowsed against her,
 the only sound aside from their breathing that of the gulls outside.

   He felt her leave the bed and wished for liquid refreshment but
 found himself unable to rouse enough to speak. He heard water running
 in the bathroom and closed his eyes.

   It was the sound of the lighthouse door closing that woke him.
 She was nowhere in the room, a depression at his side the only warmth
 left of her presence. Lazily he stroked himself, rolling from the bed,
 seeking the bathroom.

   When he'd finished he wandered into the kitchen, took a can of soda
 from the refrigerator and ambled back into the bedroom, anticipating
 her return. The noisy birds outside his window drew his interest, the
 setting sun a bright disturbance he was unable to control, since she
 had pulled down the curtain. He frowned at the tempers of women, the
 duality of their passions, making a note to ask her to draw the
 drapes, next time, using the cord at the side wall.

   He leaned upon the sill, watching the gulls swoop and soar, his
 eyes drawn by one that seemed to dive more expertly than the others.
 It had climbed very high, seeking whatever gulls might seek in the
 heights, and dove with remarkable speed, zeroed in on a figure on
 the beach.

   Ethan started when he realized the figure was Melusine, walking
 naked along the shore, sunlight gleaming in her tousled hair. The
 bird dived, coming up short of her and hovered, wings spread, before
 landing on her out held arm. Slowly she drew her arm down. With a
 thrust she flung the bird into the sky, dancing upon the beach,
 twisting to watch it ascend, a smile on her face, laughter but a
 whisper in his mind.

   She was quite mad, of course, running naked along the beach.
 And yet, there was a freedom there he envied. In truth there would
 be no one coming along this beach for months, aside from Rob, who
 would arrive in two weeks. He, himself, could thus cavort without
 fear of reprisal from any. He paused, giving the thought some
 examination. "Now," he practiced, hearing the townspeople in his
 mind, "the lighthouse keeper has been seen running on the beach with
 his sea-bride."

   He smiled indulgently at the woman on the sand, watched as she
 danced with the incoming foam, watched as she went deeper and deeper
 into the surf, splashing like a child, her hands patting the waves as
 if she were welcoming old friends. She dropped, dipping below the
 surface, to stand, her hair streaming down her back in water darkened
 strands which, from his angle, appeared as seaweed. He saw a flash,
 then, a tiny light of pearl soft radiance just back of the crown of
 her head. Perhaps, he thought, he had plucked a gem from the sea, a
 living jewel to grace his afternoon.

   She dipped again, disappearing beneath a wave, the gulls gamboling
 in the air above her position, striking out to sea, following her.

   Ethan set his soda can down and leaned into the window, straining
 his eyes. He couldn't see her head, her limbs flashing in the waves,
 the line of her passing. The gulls rose, one by one, each in their own
 time, peeling of from their scattered vigilance, going to their own
 affairs, as they, too, lost sight of her beneath the waves.

                                {DREAM}

 Copyright 1995 Gay Bost, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 ---------------------------------------------------------------------
 Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine.
 From NORTHERN California, she's resided in S.E. Missouri with her
 husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. Installed her
 first modem the summer of '92, has been exploring new worlds since.
 Her first publication, a short horror story, came when she was 17.
 The success was so overwhelming she called an end to her writing days
 and went in search of herself. She's still looking. Find Gay's great
 stories in the best Electronic Magazines. Catch Gay in the NEW
 DREAM FORGE echo available at (412) 588-7863; (410) 437-3463; (410)
 255-6229; (513) 848-4288; and other BBS's displaying DREAM FORGE.
 =====================================================================

