The Call of Distant Shores by David Niall Wilson, Bob Eggleton Read Free Book Online Page B

green in rivers flowing from Art's brush.   The eyes of Samuel Taylor Coleridge glistened with longing as he watched them, lost in a corner of the canvas, as they passed.   Beyond, seated in a garden, beneath lush fruit trees and near a fountain another sat, also watching.   Again they passed, and as they did, the man's tortured eyes slid over Belle and he whispered:
    "She walks in beauty, like the night."
    But they were gone.
    The words, so long forgotten, whispered over Sammy's lips, softer and lighter, fading to the sound of traffic passing on the street beyond.   The smoke of incense wisped about the room.   On the floor, soaked in deep green paint, the brush lay still, soaking its contents to the carpet.   The painting was spectacular, image torn from image, blended to other worlds and back.
    The room stood empty.
     
    In the next room where she'd left it closed, Belle's book fell open silently.   The candles burned low, but the light was bright enough for reading.   Leaning low, a long-haired, oddly dressed man gripped the volume, holding it up and apparently marveling at the binding and the lined paper within.   The book had fallen open to a page etched with verse, and he read.   His eyes filled with an odd pain, then he placed the framed book on Belle's altar.
    Before him on that altar, sat the bottle.   One final shot remained within.   He lifted it, took a whiff of the contents, and smiled.   He knew that scent, one thing very familiar in a world suddenly gone mad.   Without thought, he poured the last of the absinthe into the tumbler, closed his eyes, and poured it down his throat.
    Lifting the pen, he stared at the paper, mouthing the final words.
    "And drunk the milk of paradise."
    Slowly, mind awash with images, he began to write.

You Lookin' For Herb?
     
    It was getting dark, and the road ahead was fading quickly to shadows.   Dave looked about himself nervously, hoping against hope that he'd see something familiar, something that would let him know he was on the right track.   For about the thousandth time that hour, he cursed himself for forgetting to bring Beth's phone number.
    The Virginia mountains were no place to be lost at that time of night, especially when the only landmarks you could remember that might make everything all right were three giant grain silos off to one side of the road, and you could barely see the side of the road.   It was not starting out to be the best night of his life.
    In the seat beside him, Jo was squirming uncomfortably, trying to look unconcerned, but not doing a very good job.   She was taking it like a real trooper.   It was their first time away together, and they hadn't been dating that long.   His first fear had been that she'd be furious, and that their weekend would be ruined, all by his own ridiculous mistake.
    The roads that turned off to either side were all numbered with identical signs.   He knew that the road he needed was eight hundred and something, and since he couldn't make out a thing along the roadside, he opted for the one that seemed to ring a bell.   813.   It might not be the right one, but it was a place to start.
    "I'm sorry about this," he said, turning to Jo with a lopsided grin.   "I can't believe her phone is unlisted!"
    "It's okay," she said, returning the smile, if a bit nervously.   "Is this the road?"
    "I'm not sure, but it looks familiar.   If this isn't it, we'll come back out here, make our way into town, and I'll figure something else out."
    She nodded, and he drove on down the dark, deserted road, paying close attention to the many potholes and the steep ditches.   She had offered up her car for the trip, even letting him do the driving, and he had no intention of taking advantage of that trust.
    On either side they passed farm houses, some showing lights, others seemingly deserted.   Nowhere was there a sign of life or a familiar landmark, and after a couple of short miles, he had to admit that he was