24. Meridian
Meridian
TWENTY FOUR
I 've been staring at Fergus's number on my phone for twenty minutes, rehearsing a conversation doomed to go off the rails. How exactly does one casually mention their diving partner is an alien who's been living in Earth's oceans for nearly a century?
The research vessel Horizon remains anchored in the harbor, its crew of scientists methodically searching local waters.
Twice this week I've spotted their submersible drone prowling near my usual salvage sites.
Yesterday, Brian Donovan cornered me at the diner, firing questions about water temperature anomalies and electromagnetic readings in areas where I've been diving.
We're running out of time and options.
I hit dial before I can chicken out.
"Tidewash Antiques," Fergus answers on the third ring, his voice as familiar as my boat engine's rumble.
"It's me," I say, lowering my voice though I'm alone in my cottage. "I need to talk to you. Not at the shop. Somewhere private. "
A brief pause. "Everything all right?"
"Yes and no. It's complicated."
"Isn't it always with you?" The warmth in his voice steadies me. "My place, after closing. I'll make that fish stew you pretend to hate but always have seconds of."
"Thanks, Fergus."
"And Meridian? Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. We always do."
I hang up, his simple confidence providing more comfort than it should. Fergus has been my sounding board, my business partner, and occasionally my conscience for fifteen years. If anyone might understand my impossible situation, it's him.
***
Fergus's house sits on a bluff overlooking the northern coastline, a weathered Cape Cod with a widow's walk where sailors once scanned the horizon for returning ships.
The property extends to a private cove that's been in his family for generations—prime real estate that developers have tried and failed to acquire for decades.
He opens the door before I knock, as if he's been watching for me. "Been a while since you wore that expression," he observes, ushering me inside. "Not since you were forced to dry dock for repairs."
"This is bigger than that." I follow him to the kitchen, where the promised fish stew bubbles on the stove, filling the house with thyme and white wine aromas. "I need to tell you something that's going to sound impossible."
"Let me get you a drink first." He reaches for the cabinet where he keeps a bottle of decent scotch for what he calls "conversations that need lubrication." After pouring two fingers for each of us, he settles at the kitchen table. "All right. Hit me."
I take a fortifying sip, then place my notebook between us. "You know I've been working with a diving partner these past few months."
"The mysterious assistant no one's met. Yes, I've noticed the improved quality of your finds." He taps the notebook. "This about them?"
"Yes. But it's not what you think." I open to the houseboat sketches, turning them to face him. "I need your help building this."
Fergus studies the drawings, his brow furrowing. "Interesting design. Specialized diving vessel?"
"Not exactly." I flip to the next page, showing the underwater access chamber. "It's a home. For both of us."
"Both..." His eyes narrow as he examines the unusual configuration. "This moon pool here—it's designed to remain filled with water while the rest of the vessel is dry. That's not standard in any dive boat I've seen."
"No, it's not." I take another sip of scotch. "Fergus, my diving partner isn't human. "
To his credit, he doesn't laugh or immediately call for psychiatric intervention. He simply looks up from the drawings, eyes sharp with focused attention. "Explain."
"He's not from Earth. His ship crashed in these waters in 1917, and he's been here ever since." The words sound insane even to me, but I press on. "He can shapeshift to appear human for limited periods, but his natural environment is oceanic. He needs water to survive."
Fergus leans back in his chair, takes a deliberate drink of his scotch, and sets the glass down with careful precision. "You understand what you're asking me to believe."
"I do."
"And you understand why, despite fifteen years of friendship and business dealings, I might have questions."
"I'd be worried if you didn't."
He nods slowly. "Tell me more."
For the next hour, I explain everything—our first meeting when Cyreus saved me from drowning, our developing partnership, the Coast Guard's increasing suspicion, Donovan's research expedition, and finally, our desperate need for a solution that allows Cyreus to exist safely in my world without abandoning his own.
Fergus listens without interruption, his expression giving nothing away. When I finally fall silent, he gets up and refills both our glasses.
"You've always been the most rational person I know," he says, returning to the table.
"Practical to a fault. Not given to flights of fancy or delusions.
" He gestures with his glass. "Which leaves me with limited options here.
Either you're experiencing some kind of breakdown, which seems unlikely given the coherence of your story and these detailed plans, or. .."
"Or I'm telling the truth."
"Has anyone else seen him? In either form?"
"Just that journalist, Donovan, and Pete Miller—but they only saw him in human form, on the dive platform. They have no idea what he really is."
Fergus studies the houseboat designs again. "These are remarkably well-conceived. The engineering principles are sound, if unconventional."
"Cyreus helped refine them. He has knowledge of materials and structural engineering that goes beyond anything we have. His people have been building underwater habitats for millennia."
"And you trust him completely, Meridian?"
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "With my life. Multiple times over."
Fergus is silent for a long moment, then sighs deeply.
"I've seen strange things in my seventy years on this coast, Meri.
Lights on the water that moved against the current.
Shapes beneath the surface that matched no known marine species.
Rescue stories that defied rational explanation.
" He meets my eyes directly. "I've always believed there's more to this world than what can be easily categorized or explained away. "
Hope rises cautiously in my chest. "So you believe me? "
"I believe you believe what you're telling me." He holds up a hand before I can protest. "And I'm willing to be convinced of the rest. But I need to see him for myself."
"That's why I'm here. He's waiting for your answer." I check my watch. "If you're willing, he'll meet us at your cove in one hour."
Surprise flickers across his features. "He's nearby?"
"He's been monitoring the waters around your property for days, making sure it's not under surveillance. The research vessel's drones haven't mapped this far north yet."
A smile touches Fergus's mouth. "Thorough. I appreciate that in a business partner." He rises from the table, decision made. "Let's go meet your alien."
***
The walk down to Fergus's private cove takes us along a winding path through pine trees that shield the approach from casual observation. The moon is nearly full, providing enough light to navigate without flashlights that might attract unwanted attention.
"This place has been in my family since before the American Revolution," Fergus tells me as we descend toward the water. "My grandfather used to tell stories about rum-runners using the cove during Prohibition. Said there were caves along the shoreline where they'd hide their contraband."
"Are there? "
"Never found them myself, but the old boat house has some interesting hidden storage areas beneath the floorboards." He glances sideways at me. "Could be useful for your construction project."
The implication that he's already considering how to help creates a lump in my throat. "Fergus."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he cautions. "I haven't met your friend yet."
The cove opens before us, a perfect horseshoe of protected water nestled between rocky outcroppings. The old boat house sits at the water's edge, its weathered frame silhouetted against the moonlit bay. Waves lap gently against the shore, the sound peaceful in the otherwise quiet night.
"How will he know we're here?" Fergus asks, scanning the empty water.
"He'll know." I step to the edge of the small dock extending from the boat house. "His senses are far more acute than ours, especially in the water."
As if on cue, the surface ripples about twenty feet out, disturbed by something large moving beneath. Fergus tenses beside me, his hand instinctively gripping my arm.
"It's all right," I assure him. "He'll appear in human form first. I don't want to overwhelm you."
The ripples grow more pronounced, and then Cyreus surfaces in the center of the disturbance.
In the moonlight, with water streaming from his hair and shoulders, he looks like something from mythology, like a sea god rising from the depths.
He swims toward the dock with powerful strokes, his movements efficient but deliberately human.
When he reaches us, I offer my hand to help him up. He takes it, pulling himself onto the weathered planks. Thankfully, he remembered swim shorts this time.
"You must be Fergus," he says, extending his hand once he's standing. "Meri speaks highly of you."
To his credit, Fergus steps forward without hesitation, accepting the handshake. "And you must be the reason my best salvage supplier has been finding artifacts from depths that should be impossible for conventional diving."
A smile touches Cyreus's lips. "Guilty as charged."
I watch their interaction with equal parts tension and hope. Fergus studies Cyreus carefully, noting the subtle differences that mark him as not quite human—the perfect symmetry of his features, the fluid quality of his movements, the faint luminescence of his eyes in the moonlight.
"You look human enough," Fergus observes.