The Graveyard of the Atlantic

[Grimm]

Phinehas Dillinger walked down an abandoned road of sand towards the water. Eel grass and sea oats waved on both sides, tousled by a wind blowing off the ocean somewhere…back there. The sand spilled out onto a tidal flat, which in turn sloped ever so gently to the sound. A dismal backwater, this, brackish and rippled and holding its own between the barrier island and the mainland. Phinehas stepped across busted seashells and mud to the ruined remains of an earlier attempt at spanning one of the most dynamic areas of the constantly shifting Kill Devil Hills. This, a thin ribbon of sand, not the rocks and cliffs of the Gordon family.

He started out across the wooden bridge, maneuvering his feet from bare piling to rotten slab, until he reached the middle, which was now the end. Jutting out into the water where the other phantom half had long since been claimed by a hurricane, a nor’easter, or just the constant battering of the elements. They’re an unforgiving sort out here on the edge of the world.

Out there, with the water lapping up against the barnacles. Bathed in browns and muted greens and some manner of vague yellowish sheen. With algae and the bleached husks of mole crabs drifting by. With his hand Phinehas shielded his eyes from the sun and the moon, both visible in the haze on opposite ends of the horizon. And even so, he noted the flash of a lighthouse down the coast. South of here, by his reckoning.

It was a bit warm here, not altogether unpleasant, but a chill rushed up on him. Like that of one of the currents out on the ocean, but Phinehas was not in the ocean, was he? He stood here at the end of the wreckage of a bridge and shivered, despite himself. Choosing to ignore it, he knelt and looked through a gap in the slats into the water.

“You know, Phinehas, it stands to reason that if you have this…link with Brenna, you would have something with me, as well.”

The brogue sounded like sea scum rushing in and out of a tidal pool. Phinehas also chose to ignore that.

Instead, he lay face down and found his balance on what remained. He looked into the water. Dark and lonely, a color like the most bitter tea. Despite his misgivings, Phinehas reached down with a cupped hand. He disturbed a crab trap still tethered to a piling. Bobbing there like a rib cage stained amber after all that time held beneath the water. He withdrew his hand and drank. Whether this be real or dream or something in between, he tasted the tannic acid on the back of his tongue as it slid down his throat. It tasted of one of those putrid fevers that had been eradicated ages past.

“So what are we going to do about this, hmm? About her? And you?”

What Phinehas thought to himself was, We aren’t going to do anything about this. You can continue tormenting your daughter. I am going to focus my intentions on this tournament in which Brenna has seemingly lost interest. I am going to provide one Kyle Shane the kind of proper ‘welcome back to Pure Class Wrestling’ that only the Hangtown Horror can offer.

It was quite fortuitous that the back healed just in time for the IIT, wasn’t it? For David Hunter’s attack and the accident (what is it with this guy and stray dogs?) to put him down for just long enough. For some, the day-to-day work required to be successful in this federation for the long haul isn’t the right kind of glamorous. The actual work, mind you, not like that referenced in Hunter’s confession to taking the easy **cough**coward’s**cough** way out of fighting the good fight. The kind of work and effort that reflects a person’s true character. The kind that carries over into all aspects of one’s life. No, that sort of thing isn't astounding enough for those who exist only for the spectacle.

Or maybe the back hasn’t healed at all. Maybe he’s so desperate for something, anything, to give him a reason to just get up in the morning that he’s willing to risk a lifetime of pain and misery and perhaps even paralysis. All for the lure of the match and the validation of an ever-fragmenting audience. Love me, hug me, shower me with kisses. That sort of thing.

For the sake of the argument let’s say no one’s life could possibly be that void of meaning. In that case, we can move forward with, excellent, it has all fortunately worked out in his favor, at least as far as returns to wrestling rings are concerned. So, yes, broken back and bionic parts and fragile psyches, oh my, and here we are. One might think such an experience would have given one perspective…like, maybe, this federation doesn’t exist to fix anyone. It’s not here to give any one particular person a platform. After all, PCW as we know it has been in existence for 15 years, which is much longer than most of you have been around. And it’ll be here long after most of us are gone.

Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but right about here is when we cue the Grimm’s–time-is-past part of the rambling, correct?

“Nobody personifies the old way of thinking in PCW more than Grimm. And that’s why he needs to be properly dealt with.”

See, it’s still being bandied about by several members of the roster. No need to rehash any of it for the umpteenth time. Because, see, I’m still here. And one doesn’t become the PCW Wrestler of the Decade by paying much attention to such nonsense, no matter who is spouting it.

But, hey, you do you.

At least, that’s what he thought.

But Phinehas, still facing the water, said only, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Look around you. You only have time for this. All the time in the world.”

Phinehas closed his eyes and rolled to his side. Carefully – gingerly, even – he rose to his feet. Everything was the same. Almost. Mud and tangle stretched in all directions. The land further west (again, by his reckoning) rose crisscrossed by scars from old peat fires. That land haunted by red wolves. Black bears. Wild hogs.

And there beside him lurked a…form, or presence, or something of the sort. It was cold and, even with both sun and moon working to divide the light from the dark, it radiated its own gloom. It manifested there as if behind the haze gauzing the sky. And if the form could have been said to have hair, those locks rose and fell as if disturbed by their own air. Or as if the form rested under the waves.

Phinehas sighed.

“I helped bury your ashes. I tasted your…essence. Why insist on this, still?”

A ripple, and then the voice resumed.

“Because she is meant for more. More than this…business. More than this clinging to you. Oh, maybe it’s not all entirely your fault. But she did find her way here, and she continues to find her way back.”

She did seem to be gone, again. Maybe she would return.

“Back from…?”

“From my desires for her. I have only her best interests in mind, and this has not been easy for her, in case you haven’t noticed. This tug of war between her bloodline, her destiny, and these mortal concerns that somehow continue to amuse her. Never the less, she is Born of Myth, and like the sea in those myths from which she arose, her tides rise and fall. She will come back. She must. It’s only that Brenna’s lifestyle choices up to this point…these pursuits in which you find yourselves involved…they do not help.”

Blue eyes reflected sour water, and narrowed. “So that what’s keeping you here? You general disappointment in all of this?”

The presence intensified, and from within that flare Phinehas perceived a pair of dark eyes peering at him with something of a metaphysical thousand-yard stare.

“All of this – everything involved in this business, including you – has been a distraction from what I wanted for her. From what she was meant to be. Brenna is my miracle. I created her. And I will have her back. Or no one will have her.”

“Not even herself. “

Now, Phinehas Dillinger was not one to openly antagonize anyone. He preferred to convey his feelings with a glower or a well-placed headbutt. And so it surprised even him when he heard the following come out of his own mouth. This he did not think to himself.

“You know, Moira, even with these vague references to powers or what have you, I was never entirely clear on what it was you were supposed to have been able to do, exactly. Other than psychologically and emotionally abuse a little girl, that is. Too bad you’re dead or you could show me.”

Oh. Whoops. Did he just make things worse? Phinehas braced for…well, he wasn’t sure. The full fury of a sea hag scorned, perhaps, however that might manifest under the present circumstances.

It manifested as a swarm. The form engulfed him in mire and a hurricane of black finches. Phinehas had visions of stone towers and bridges. On torrents of salt and basalt sand it – she? – glided along his channels of ash and limestone. Channels clogged with ill-intent. Not towards Brenna, though, or even the witch. Ill intentions directed towards him.

The new and improved Catalyst. Still looking for that spark. Still striving for innovation and inspiration.

Depends on your definition of those words, I guess.

Because regardless of proclamations from its ever-revolving roster expressing wishes and plans, at its core Pure Class Wrestling is unchanging. It is primal. It represents the ultimate contest of will, of ability, of wits, of the most pure form of sport in existence since the dawn of time. And here he returns with his pockmarked soul, working to plug those holes with a never-ending carousel of songs and outfits and move sets. If that’s the plan, along with the video game jargon sprinkled throughout the streams of backstage interviews and in-ring monologues, then okay. If you say so. Go right ahead and attempt yet again to remake the federation into a manic-depressive’s fever dream.

Or try, because, psst, here’s a secret.

No one cares.

Sure, the God of Game is a strong competitor. And, yes, he has his base. They’ll cheer his every word. Maybe after another oh-so-stimulating speech they’ll get the nerve to try a new haircut or finally get that tattoo they’ve been sketching and re-sketching in their journal. You know, groundbreaking, earthshaking decisions like that. But the cold hard truth is no one is going to truly change – no thing is going to change – because of anything Kyle Shane says or does. That is not due to a bug in PCW or the various character flaws we all have. That is just reality. Everyone will eventually go their own way, do their own thing, and he’ll remain just some guy trying his best to find a reason to stick around like a lot of others you see drifting through life. Bless his heart.

Though, yes, some of those fans of his may feign interest. They may even hold him in some esteem. So by all means, he should keep showing up for them. Continue entertaining them with his high-striking antics or whatever other style he’s adopted for the week. There’s still time to howl and mutter and brood. Just recognize that once it’s over – and it will end – he’ll wake in that dead end called The Morning After. Called his life. Called that thing he prayed for.

Perhaps due to Grimm. Nemesis. Destroyer of hubris.

And with that, the flood receded. Phinehas found himself standing, and the presence remained. It – she? – kind of , sort of, tilted what must have been the head and those dark ‘eyes’ narrowed.

“What lovelier symmetry than that of the Monster.”

Moira fancied herself a poet, and maybe she was. And in the trespass just then she had seen things, had heard things, known only to Granny and Ruth. Or things at least suspected by them.

“You know, Phinehas, I find this wrestling nonsense crude and vulgar. But when Brenna is involved I have no choice but to stay apprised, so believe me when I say I’ve never been comfortable with this Kyle Shane lad. I don’t like his intentions towards my daughter. He tries to mask them, but I know. A mother always knows. And now at least I know where you stand.”

Phinehas wavered but caught his balance. “And where is that?”

“You stand on Hangtown. You are of Hangtown. There’s something to be said of one who is such an embodiment of a place. Of a land. As opposed to, say, someone more like a strip of magnesium you might ignite for a demonstration. Bright, yes, but oh so brief. Or a meteorite burning out even as it makes a scene across the sky, its focused crystalline drivel falling apart before it reaches us. Something you’d point out to a child, a faint thing everyone knows can’t last.”

“Are you saying…”

“I’m only saying he’s an odd little weed. Most are hardy, as you well know. It takes real effort to remove them for good. But this dainty thing withers when conditions aren’t just so. Now, someone with their feet firmly planted on their ground…someone set in their person and their principles, well, that’s more like a dry stone wall, and that is as sturdy as it gets. It actually grows stronger the longer it stands.”

Moira – the presence – withdrew. She –it – faded. Though the voice could still be heard.

“But to answer what was bound to be your question, I can’t say how this is going to play out. Only that, whatever happens, it will be what has to be done and what, no doubt, will have to be done again. I know you, Phinehas. I know the real you, now. I know that whatever happens you’ll be waiting patiently in the woods, in the fields, in the cellar for the day when you face them all again, one by one. And for the day when she comes back.”

And with that, only the two dark eyes were left. Then they too receded out of existence. Nothing to look at now but that black tide sprawl hinting at sunken ships and the leers of the drowned.

Nothing left to say, other than you know no good will ever come of this.

Phinehas Dillinger stood on a ruined bridge. He became haloed by his flaming hair as the sun descended into the west.