Trident Grove was flourishing with trees and wildlife, and cicadas that hummed a tune to the day. It was relaxing on the porch, or the Bayfront, sipping a cold sweet tea in the shade while listening to the wind through the leaves or the beating of the waves on the pier. It was walking through the woods to find a deer staring you down while it tried to decide whether or not to run. It was dipping your toes in the ocean to feel a fish peck at them, while a nearby older man sat waiting for a bite on his fishing pole.

At least, that’s what Terry was told. A lot changed in the last twenty years. All Terry could see was that the young had grown old, and the kids had moved away. Most residents were old and tame in their habits and often did nothing besides flick on the television when they got home if they ever left. The soil was mixed with sand and little bugs that bite. Not many plants grew from the ground, but the ones that had slowly withered to lifeless carcasses in the sweltering heat. The trees were skeletal frames that did nothing to block the sun. Deer ran at the slightest movement, the fish stayed clear of the shore, and the Texas Sweet Tea wasn't nearly as good since Gramma passed.

The apartments Terry lived in were old, and from the age sprouted stories, myths, and urban legends. Many of which revolved around the crusted run-down fountain that sat in the center of the courtyard.

Terry’s father was no longer in the picture. They only had one picture of the man, buried deep in a photo album at the tip-top of a bookcase in the living room. Whenever he didn’t have school, the fourteen-year-old spent most of his time reading books, running around the greenbelt or the nearby docks, and wishing he was somewhere else. Later in the day, he would stay closer to the apartment to keep from the wrath of his mother for being out past the time the streetlamps flickered on.

The only relief from the heat was a cool breeze that blew in now and again. Terry had overheard at the convenience store that it was a sign that Winter, or their version of Winter, was on its way to greet them soon. He sat on a bench that faced the fountain in the middle of the apartment complex, spat at the sandy soil, and watched it slowly evaporate. Part of him wondered if by doing that he caused the already high humidity to rise a fraction of a bit.

A man emerged from one of the apartments and began to walk toward him. Terry studied and picked at the names that were carved into the wood grain of the bench. One was crossed out heavily and read, “Beth & Randy 4evr.” Another read, “WEED ‘96.” When the man reached Terry, he looked up to see a skeletal figure with red cheeks and hair that matched. The man wore an oversized polo over his thin frame. The man was Mister Clines.

Mister Clines slipped a flask back into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts and put out his cigarette in a pile of other cigarette butts in the sand.

He asked in a groggy voice, “may I have a seat with ya?”

Terry nodded.

Mister Clines took a seat next to him. Terry could immediately smell the liquor on his breath. Everybody in the town seemed to have a similar problem. He turned away to look at the fire ants that crawled on the bench. Their trail led from a mound leaning against the broken fountain. When he looked back up, Mister Clines was staring up at the clouds that swam through the sky. He glanced at the collar of the man’s shirt.

“Hey, Mister Clines,” Terry spoke up. “I got a question.”

“Shoot fer it.” He replied.

“How’d you get those scars?” Terry motioned to his own neck.

Mister Clines pulled at the collar to reveal a deep red and purple scar that extended down his chest and back. He stared at them in silence as if he were looking for an excuse and traced his fingers over the risen scar tissue.

“I was set on fire.”

Terry said nothing.

“Well, acterlly,” Mister Clines continued. “I set maself on fire.”

Terry tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. Before he could ask any more, Clines continued. “Sometimes we make desperate decisions in hard times.”

Terry hopped from sitting on the bench, wiped his hands on his shorts, and kept his eyes to the ground. “I think I understand.”

A wind blew through and rustled the browning leaves in a chorus. Neither spoke for a minute as they listened to Fall’s whispers coming in.

Terry said, “Fire burns. My mom’s always yellin’ at me about staying away from the stove when she’s cookin’.”

“Yeah,” Mister Clines laughed.

Terry mumbled an agreement, then put a foot on the brick of the fountain that separated the empty pool from the stones of the concrete.

“You think they’re ever going to fix this thing?” Terry changed the subject.

Mister Clines said, “Probably not, but ther issan urban legen about this fountain.”

Terry took his foot off the fountain. “An urban legend?”

“Like a tall tale. Or, a myth.”

“What is it?”

Mister Clines scratched his head before he spoke. “They say, evry full moon, tha fountain becomes full of glowin’ blue water.”

Terry’s eyes trailed back and forth between the man and the fountain. He slowly began to lose interest in the subject the more he saw the cracks and dust in the fountain pool.

“People say that?” he asked.

“Yep,” Mister Clines said and leaned in. “They also say, if you look hard enough, you can see a woman bathing in it, who sings an’ leans on the edge of it, an’ watches the town entil the moon is no longer visible.”

“Why? Have you seen her?”

Mister Clines looked up and put his hand to his chin. He bobbed for apples in the sky, as if that were where he kept his memories. He looked back down.

“I dunno.” Mister Clines said, “but they also say she’s half fish from the waist down, and is beautiful ‘nuff to make any man fall for her.”

Terry asked. “You think she’s real?”

“Mhm. You wanna know how I know?”

Terry shrugged.

Clines spoke in a more hushed tone as he shared his secret. “I seen her. She glows like the water an’ sometimes sings a tune that can put a cryin’ baby to sleep.”

Terry looked to the fountain trying to picture it as more than just a bunch of stones that once spit out water. He couldn’t imagine anything magical coming to life in front of him. The cupids near the spouts did not dance and stayed frozen in concrete. The empty pool did not fill with glowing water and remained empty and full of dust. The was nothing magic about the antique.

The sun began to set out a palette of watercolors across the sky as it began to fall below the horizon. Terry said goodnight to Mr. Clines and walked across the brick path that led from the fountain to his mom's apartment. As Terry left, Clines lit up a cigarette and gazed at the fountain.

He mumbled, “There ain’t much time left, is there?”

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The apartment Terry lived in with his mom had two bedrooms and one bathroom, a small kitchen with mostly out-of-date appliances, and a living room big enough for a couch, bookshelf, and television stand. The floorboards creaked under the carpet, the air conditioning chose when it wanted to work, and dust seemed to settle anywhere. When Terry walked in he was met with the stench of burned cornbread and chicken-fried steak.

The two asked the Lord to bless their meal and they ate it down.

Mom spoke between bites. “Make sure to thank Mister and Misses Stephens for the steak next time you see them. They were kind enough to stop by and gift it to us.”

Terry swallowed before speaking. “Yes ma’am.”

The two muttered to each other about their day at both school and work. Mom was picking up some overtime at the office. She explained that Misses Stephens would be keeping an eye on him while she was at work tomorrow. The Stephens were a close family and helped the two out whenever there was a need. It may have been an unspoken agreement in the town to help out single mothers. The couple had twins, who were in the same class as Terry.

“Have you made any friends?” She asked.

“I don’t know.” He answered.

“Just talk to people,” she’d say, “you’ll make friends that way,” and she would give him a reassuring smile with a pair of eyes that said, it’s alright. But, Terry showed no interest in talking to the other kids in his class. He didn’t have any dislike for them, just no desire to socialize. He would speak when he was spoken to, but he rarely reached out to talk to others himself.

“Oh,” Terry said, “I talked to Mister Clines again today.”

Her voice lowered, “I saw. What did y’all talk about?”

He explained to her about the scars Clines had, and how the man had set himself on fire.

“Yeah,” she said. “He has a very colorful past, from what I’ve heard.”

“Mhm,” He muffled with a mouth full of his last bit of food.

The balcony door was open, letting in the coastal town's fresh salty air. Now and again a truck would pass on the nearby road, and it would drown out the orchestra of cicadas that conversed in the trees, then the truck’s engine would fade in the distance, and the cicadas would resume from their intermission.

The two finished dinner and stood at the sink to wash the dishes. Terry could see the fountain through the window, and the thought came back to his head. His mom washed a plate and handed it to him to dry.

“You know that fountain in the courtyard?”

“Mhm,” she mumbled softly.

“Mister Clines was telling me about how theirs some urban legends about the thing ‘cause it’s so old. One of them is like a mermaid that sings on full-moons.”

“That’s interesting.” She said, uninterested. “There’s a full-moon next week I think.”

She passed him another dish to dry, and each one he set gently on the dish rack.

“Remember to behave when you’re with the Stephens, alright? And go straight there after school is out. No getting distracted in the woods.”

He answered. “Yes ma’am.” He didn’t understand why he had to go over to their house. He was old enough to look after himself for a day.

Terry dried off the last dish Mom handed to him, and the two locked up the apartment and got ready for bed. Terry cracked his window and listened to the owls and crickets until he fell asleep.

The skinny man sprawled over his desk, jotting keywords, drawing graphs, and sketched pictures under a small lamp in a poorly lit room. Papers covered his desk in disorganization, but his focus remained on an old journal that held itself together through small threads in the binding. On the edges of each page, it had stains where dust slowly decayed through the ages. He was delicate in reading the fading handwriting and in turning the page. He wrote with his pen into his own much fresher journal. Each little bit, he would reach for a bottle of Jim Beam and take an effortless swig. He muttered to himself different possible meanings for the things he read.

There was a knock on his door, followed by another less patient knock.

“Dammit, Leland Clines! I know you’re in there, just answer the door.” The voice called.

Mister Clines turned to the front door. He took a pile of papers, and spread them over the archaic book, covering them from sight. Before walking to answer the door, he put out a cigarette he forgot had been smoking in its ashtray.

He cracked the door as much as the chain lock would allow and spoke in a sarcastic welcoming tone. “Oh, Sheriff Johanson. Whatta surprise to see ya at my home at,” he looked to the watch on his wrist, “midnight.”

The sheriff’s voice was deep. “Just let me in, asshole. I gotta talk to ya ‘bout somethin’.”

Mister Clines closed the door. Then a sound of a chain rattled and settled, and he opened the door fully for the sheriff before walking to the living room. The sheriff closed the door behind him.

The sheriff stayed in the walkway and leaned against the corner that led into the living room. The apartment was a mess worse than the last time he visited a month ago. Beer bottles sat in piles around a full trash bag that hung from a closet door. An area beside the couch had dirty rags spread out as if Mister Clines had spilled something and was too drunk to wash the rags afterward. Dirty dishes and trash were scattered in piles around the apartment. The air reeked of piss, alcohol, and dry sweat. The sheriff coughed when he grabbed a whiff.

“I know you have it here.” The sheriff said.

Mister Clines sat in his desk chair and swiveled it around. He leaned back, crossed his legs, and put his arms behind his head as a headrest.

He said, “Oh, you do? I thought my drug lab was almost scentless.”

The sheriff sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You can relax, I ain’t here to arrest ya.”

“Then what brings ya here?”

“I know ya have it, and I have an idea what you’re tryin’ to do. But I gotta say. You could have just asked instead of stealin’ it. You used to be a linguistics professor for God’s sake, Leland.”

Mister Clines leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. He rolled his eyes.

He said, “ya think they would let the town bum mess wit an artifact? Nah.”

Sheriff Johanson shrugged, “it’d be better than just sneaking in one night and stealin’ it.”

Mister Clines waved his hand in the air, dismissing Johanson’s statement, as he swiveled around to reface his desk.

“I’m almost finished translatin’ it.” Mister Clines said. “I’ll sneak it back when I’m done.”

The sheriff walked to the desk, and stood over him, watching him remove the papers covering the old journal, carefully. Mister Clines pulled out some gloves and slipped his hands in before flipping the page of the artifact.

“At least you’re bein’ careful, I guess.”

Mister Clines turned his head and replied with a childish smile.

“What all have ya found?” The sheriff asked.

Mister Clines’ smile went away, and he looked back to the journal he wrote his notes in.

He answered. “So far, it’s not very good. Ya believe in prophecies?”

The sheriff looked at him. “Not really, ya know how many prophecies have existed that never happened? A lot, probably.”

Mister Clines spoke, “well, for the most part, I’ve found more of that prophesy written on that tablet. An’ based on things I’m finding that there are a lot of connections around us. An’ things are gonna get bad.”

“Is there a way to stop it?”

“That’s what I’m starting to get to. It’s taken so long ‘cause the first half is mostly religious text.”

The sheriff started to walk back to the door. “Well, I’ll leave ya to it.”

“I’ll let ya know if there’s anything else I find.” Mister Clines said.

“Yep.”

Sheriff Johanson led himself out and closed the door behind him. Mister Clines took another gulp from his bottle and went back to his work.