A Moon Called Sun
Chapter One — The Odd Remains

Spokane, Washington 1967.

Steven J. Murphy dropped his toothbrush into its plastic holder as he studied the haggard face in the bathroom mirror. He'd been a low-level accountant for twenty-odd years and looked every damn day of it. He was no work of art. "Ordinary," he groaned, "so ordinary."

A bachelor by his own indecision, he still resented his loneliness. The saps in both his apartment and office buildings thought him an unremarkable fellow, at least he assumed they did. But despite their scowls condemning his funny tweed suits and tightly knotted bowties, he'd always tip his fedora to the ladies and say an efficient 'good day' to the gentlemen in his usual perfunctory manner. To be honest, Steven never wanted to know anyone beyond this level of superficial pleasantries. He didn't care for the people in either building anyhow.

"Not a true artist in the bunch." Steven exhaled a heavy sigh.

He had toiled away at that same accounting firm for over two decades and accrued a tidy little nest egg, much of which was not found within the breakdown of his paystub.

"I simply took the beans that belonged to me," he asserted.

With all the extra beans, he planned on escaping to the pristine islands of the Pacific-Tahiti, to be more specific. He dreamed about it every wretched minute of every blessed day. He was dreaming about it even now while gazing into those beady, bloodshot eyes that looked back at him so disapprovingly.

Steven blew out another long, lingering sigh.

It was 9:00 p.m.-bedtime and he was already behind schedule. Therefore, he flossed his teeth much faster than he preferred and switched off the florescent light of his painfully small bathroom.

Kicking off his slippers, he jumped into his tiny, twin bed and opened his Big Book of Impressionist Art featuring his favorite artist, Paul Gauguin.

"I love that crazy Frenchman," he said with a smile.

It was Murphy's evening sacrament to thumb through the prints, fantasizing about those topless Polynesian women, so tanned and buxom, so lovingly rendered by Gaugin. Murphy never doubted for a second that he'd leave this hell and escape to those sparkling Tahitian islands.

Yep, he'd finally work up the nerve to just disappear. He'd surprise them all-if anyone cared.

***

When the police entered Steven J. Murphy's apartment on the fifth floor of Macready Arms, all they found was a charred bed with a mound of ash piled upon a scorched pillow. A large book of paintings was next to the pile with its singed pages opened to a picture called, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? A detective stopped to admire the vibrant colors and broad brushstrokes, conveying an emotional strength to the three women in the painting. As a bonus, they were topless.

"Nice tits," grunted the detective.

Nevertheless, because of the localized burn pattern and the glaring lack of any combustible agents, the police attributed the disappearance of Steven J. Murphy to spontaneous human combustion.

'Spontaneous human combustion' was the trendy catchphrase in those days for any unexplained piles of human ash. The case was closed, and Steven J. Murphy quickly became a fleeting afterthought in the memories of those who never really knew him.

***

Introducing Snow White.

Earth, Ice Mountains, 7001.

It struggled to touch the light. The brightness was blinding, yet warm and inviting. The small figure, having formed inside the gelatinous sac of liquid nourishment, stretched out a tiny hand to grab the light outside its bubble of existence. If it could just break free of this clear casing, it could take the light's heat into its being. It needed to be warm and wanted to be free. But first, it had some unfinished business to complete. It strained until sex organs popped out from between its little legs. Now it was he, and he wanted out of this viscous prison.

With a primal scream, he broke from the sac and burst upon the Earth. He was a sentient being with a burning desire to contribute, and it was time to get started. Except...his legs were weak and couldn't hold his weight. He collapsed onto the spongy surface of the lab. Luckily, the floor was soft yet supportive and, best of all, heated. The fluid from the ruptured sac was drained away as a soft brush of warm air caressed his body and dried him. His head grew heavy, and he was unable to hold himself upright as the urge to sleep consumed him.

"Easy, little haploid," came a soothing voice from somewhere in the room. "The strength in your legs will arrive. The weakness is only fleeting. Bursting is such a strenuous progression. Please do not distress. May you find warmth and awareness in your new days."

The words somehow dispelled his fear and gave him a new sense of purpose. His purpose would be warmth and awareness of course! That was the human condition. "The decision has been made," again the soft voice calmed him. "We have chosen a name for you. You will be so very happy. It is a given name of our bravest ancestor." He could practically hear the smile in the disembodied voice.

"We expect magnificent things from you, Snow White."

The name brought the haploid great honor coupled with an immense burden. As the millennia of accumulated knowledge flooded his cortex, he fell into a peaceful sleep and dreamt of the promise of such a distinguished name Snow White. He would have much to do and much to contribute.

He would have so very much to learn...

***

Soft and Hot.

Hillsboro Beach, Florida, 2012.

His watch read 7:00 a.m. It was another beautiful morning in a long line of similar Saturdays. The sun was just beginning to peek through the palm trees as Andrew 'Trace' Jackson cruised the Intracoastal Waterway toward the Hillsboro inlet. The inlet would lead him out to the Atlantic where Trace looked forward to another day on the blue, trawling for mahi or kingfish. He loved his Florida paradise just as he loved his Dusky Open Fisherman with its twin outboard 350s, and just as he loved Skiff, a five-year-old mutt, part retriever mixed with a little loggerhead and a lot of Florida cracker.

Both Trace and Skiff enjoyed the open water. They lived for these weekends when the two fellas could glide the chop to forget their troubles on dry land. Trace's worries were the typical ones-the bills fighting for room inside the mailbox, the variety of minor addictions to pass the time when he wasn't fishing, the dead-end job with the blood-sucking cable company, and the rocky relationship with his girlfriend Nikki, the functional alcoholic.

Skiff's problems went a little deeper the cheeky squirrel outside his bedroom window, the empty food bowl that mocked him long after he'd eaten, and the lumpy bed pillow refusing to flatten no matter how many rotations he made before settling down. But it was known throughout the neighborhood that Skiff's biggest dilemma was his turbulent love affair with the Sheltie living next door-the infamous Parker Posey. That Sheltie was just a purebred bitch who enjoyed teasing Skiff with a butt scented with desire and a bite denying him the pleasure.

Trace often thought Skiff and Parker's relationship was purely physical and doomed from the start. Everyone knew a successful couple needed more than just hot rocking sex to really make it work. It took way more than simple animal lust to last. "Doesn't it?" Trace asked himself.

As they continued idling through the waterway, Trace mused over his chance meeting with Nikki Phillison on the dance floor of a club called The Bottom Feeter. To apologize for stepping on her toes, he'd bought her a Captain and Diet Coke. The two had been on again/off again for three years since.

He appreciated Nikki's taste for sushi, Irish pubs, and zombie flicks, especially Romero and Lucio Fulci. Ain't nothing better than flesh-eating corpses to get the blood pumping through your veins. This was all good to be sure. But that's where the similarities ended. Although, the sex was totally rocking.

"Shit...doomed," Trace muttered. Forget that, back to the boat and back to the boys.

These weekend trips were just for 'the boys'-Trace and his dog Skiff-their boat, their long poles, and the sea. It was why he put up with Monday through Friday. It's how he coped with life, despite all the headaches back in the real world. Trace, in his early thirties, knew he had some growing up to do, but he never felt the desire to change.

"Why the hell should I?" he said aloud. "Besides, Nikki isn't sober enough to care what I do on the weekends, so screw it."

As the Dusky left the manatee zone, Trace edged up on her throttle, pushing the boat to gain the momentum needed to navigate the inlet ahead. He knew, mostly from the York and Jersey News, that many inexperienced boaters capsized their shit while trying to steer through this bouncy channel.

The chumps left their balls in a jar and any common sense in their wallets. Timidity won't ever catch fish, and it sure as hell shouldn't captain a boat-no matter how much paper you bank.

"Got that, chief?" Trace chuckled.

The more he felt the familiar sting of the salty spray peppering his face, the more he craved it. He ticked the throttle up another couple notches, waiting for that perfect pitch. The first rule of the inlet was not going too slow, followed by the second rule, which was not going too fast. He'd done this a million times until it was pure muscle memory.

The Dusky had been a final gift from his father, Burt. His dad, a retired fireman, had been a large man who enjoyed living life, unlike his son who merely tolerated it. Perhaps Burt enjoyed it a little too much, seeing that he passed away from heart disease at the ripe old age of sixty-four. It was no surprise to anyone that Burt had bestowed this fine sea-going legacy to his only son. After all, they'd built her together.

Trace re-christened it The Joey, in honor of his dad's second wife, a bona fide Australian Sheila. Not that being Australian was a bad thing, but the woman professed to hate the boat as much as she hated those goddamned water rats lurking around the old boathouse where it was docked. She referred to the rats as 'Joeys' because the monsters were as big as baby kangaroos in her Zoloft-addled brain.

After Burt's death, Sheila pretty much got everything else while Trace got the Dusky. So, he'd thought it a nice touch of irony to rename it The Joey. Not that he was bitter over the settlement, because he never was a whore for money. Burt's widow eventually sold it all and moved back to Darwin. So, in the end, they all got what they wanted-except for poor ol' Burt.

"Dads usually get the shaft," Trace declared.

He gunned the twins once they cleared the inlet and were well beyond the jetty of jagged rocks that extended past the surf. As they pierced the expanse of blue water, Skiff assumed his position on the bow like a furry hood ornament. The dog's abnormally long tongue flapped in the wind, and his eyes watered with excitement. Skiff's silky red fur radiated with sunlight-yep, he was perfectly canine.

Trace flipped on the GPS and oriented The Joey southeast to catch the Gulf Stream. Today would be another ideal day filled with the promise of a late afternoon fish fry. The Fish Finder would make sure of that! Nikki was certainly welcome to have a bite.

"If she's sober enough to chew and swallow, that is," he mumbled. "Unlikely...it's the weekend, after all."

Frantically tapping his front paws on the bow, Skiff yapped at the flying fish skipping across their wake. Trace was amazed by the dog's sea legs. Skiff balanced his seventy-pound body, never losing his footing, no matter how rough the ride. But he also knew when to take a seat-say, when the swells reached a peak of four feet or more. What a smart beastie he was...and a loyal friend, even though his breath reeked of balls and ass. "What the hell is that all about?" Trace asked his buddy up on the bow. Skiff's tail wagged with enthusiasm.

Trace listened to the recognizable beeps from the GPS mounted on the command console and guided The Joey on a south by southeast heading.

With perfect pitch achieved, it was time to crank up the volume on the Deafcon sound system, a Christmas present from Skiff. Nikki had given him a Jimmy Buffett compilation CD, which was damn nice of her. She did have a sweet side on occasion. As the Buffster crooned on about lava coming down soft and hot, Trace realized he had that familiar feeling in his gut again-something was different about this day.

Now that The Joey was on a consistent heading, he jammed her throttle forward and continued south. There was a disturbance off in the distance. Something was brewing in the water up ahead possibly a nice run of king-and there'd be no better place to drop a line.

"Let's check 'er out for shits and gigs!" he shouted over the roaring engines. "All aboard Her Majesty's Royal Navy brig-sloop cruiser, the HMS Penguin! We're gonna catch us some seafaring scourge. No one can escape our massive guns!" Trace smiled, enjoying the game. "How I love mysteries of the horizon-yes, sir, Skiffy, we're going to get us something big."

A little more throttle and the boys were off on their next adventure.

***

Digging Painful Trenches.

Amiens, France, 1942.

Josette Legard sat on her bed staring at her hands-hands that were clenched into fists so tight, her knuckles turned white. Her nails, with their polish old and chipped, had dug painful trenches into her palms. For a young lady, why did she feel like such an old woman? Her mother had informed her only moments ago that it was time for Josette to leave. Her mother's glare from across the room burned into the back of her head.

"You are a whore, Josette!" she screamed at her. "Leave now if you must smoke those disgusting cigarettes. My house will burn down."

Why her mother thought Josette a whore, she'd never know. She'd slept with only two men in her entire lifetime, both of whom she loved. One she might have even married had he not died in an auto accident outside Brussels. And while she liked to smoke because it helped to focus her mind, did that make her damaged? Perhaps it just made her human. To her mother, any woman who smoked was a whore, and all whores were damaged goods. Josette mashed her cigarette into the ashtray near her bed.

Her mother, Apolline, had always been delusional and somewhat deranged, but grew worse after the disappearance of Josette's father. Her father had been a member of the French Resistance and vanished somewhere near the city of Boulogne. Josette loved her father and missed him so much that it pained her every second of her life. Yet, her mother was all she had left in this world, so when Apolline lashed out like this, it hurt profoundly.

"Mama..." Josette shuddered from the prospect of another pointless disagreement. "Please, don't say those things to me." Reflexively and without thought, she had spoken in Italian.

"Why speak Italian again, Josette?" Apolline complained. "Because you like the sausage so much? Soon you will speak German too. You'll be Adolf's little whore too? The next Eva!"

Josette enjoyed speaking Italian. At the academy, she studied Italian literature. She cherished her time at school as the happiest years in her young life. La Divina Commedia was her favorite piece of literature, and she compared her own life to Dante's journey into Hell-envisioning Paradise just beyond her reach as the poet described it. Certainly, her current reality was the true divine comedy now. After four years of university Italian, Josette loved the lyrical cadence of the language. It soothed her. She found comfort in it. Perhaps a passing phase, perhaps not...only time would tell.

On the other hand, her mother displayed a disdain for the Italian culture, even before the war. Maybe in some way it gave Josette a small victory to argue in Italian. It was the only thing she could control when fighting an irrational person. "Did you take your medicine today?" asked Josette, this time in French.

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed her mother, visibly excited. "Of course, a drug addict would say such things. You want to kill me, Josette? Why don't you just turn me over to the Wehrmacht? They took your papa, so why shouldn't they take me?" "No, Mama, I'd never hurt you." Josette would never stop defending herself. Somewhere, deep down inside, her real mother must live. Surely, such support and love for Apolline would rescue the troubled woman from her torment. "I love you," Josette said, sighing.

Apolline fell silent. As she turned to leave the room, she uttered these devastating words to her only child: "Leave my house, tonight." And then slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Josette knew this night would be no different from any other night that unfolded the same way. Unless she changed the routine, she could never alter the outcome. It was time to do what she'd put off for too long. Something must be done about her darling mother-something drastic.

They lived in the town of Amiens, a couple hours from Paris by rail. She quickly packed a small suitcase and ran a brush through her long, auburn hair. Stopping to check her make-up in the mirror over her bureau, Josette realized how pretty she was, though it had been a long while since someone told her as much. She worried the Resistance, where she would follow in the footsteps of her father, would take an even greater toll if it didn't end soon. But for now, she worried about Apolline.

Her plan was to board the train for Paris and visit Dr. Bontecou. Hopefully, he was still practicing medicine. After the Nazis marched through Paris, many doctors were forced into service for the Germans at the front. Some were executed, and others fled France altogether. There were still a few brave souls scattered throughout the once great city. And if he were there, he'd know what to do. René Bontecou was a longtime friend of the Legard family and knew of their problems...he knew of everything.

Josette paused in the doorway of her bedroom and turned back for a final look. The room was alive with childhood memories that the war was eroding away. Now it was merely a reminder of her mother's progressing insanity. She closed the door behind her, careful not to make any noise, and tiptoed down the hall. Most likely her mother was well on her way to a Laudanum-induced stupor and couldn't hear even her own voice. However, better safe than sorry.

As Josette left the house and headed down the cobblestone avenue, she heard the somber bells from the Our Lady of Amiens Cathedral. The ringing became more menacing than usual. She believed them to be the resonant crying of angels. Josette ran her hand along her side to feel the comforting bulge of the loaded pistol tucked under her jacket. These days, the only things she could count on were her pistol and blade. They remained constants by her side-loyal friends to the end. Josette pushed it all aside and filled her mind with thoughts of a new start with her dear mother.

"This time I'll help you, Mama," she said. "This time I'll find an answer." Indeed, her gut told her this time would be different from all the others...very different.