The Merman and the Moon Forgotten - By Kevin McGill Page 0,22

which was the only coffee shop franchise with restaurants two miles in the air. More times than not, Grand would carry a large axe into Cappumulus, plop it on the counter, and order a large triple espresso, no syrup, no sugar, and no whip. Then he’d fire up his pipe and set off the very sensitive smoke alarms. Most of their coffee sessions were Grand grilling Nick and Tim, asking if they had enrolled in any sword dueling classes or at least metallurgy. How many stanzas of poetry had they memorized in the last week, or had they learned to fell a wild animal with their bare hands yet? Tim explained that there were no wild animals within twenty miles of the city limits. Nick reminded himself to download all the books he could on W. B. Yeats and sword fighting.

Yes. Grand’s eccentricities unnerved Nick, but it was the very reason Nick trusted Grand. He was as real as they came.

Grand wasn’t a drone.

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Finally, after another two days of hopping between electrostations and elevated restaurants, Grand nodded to the ground and said, “That’s about long enough.”

He punched in a new location: Grace Church of Colorado City.

“Church?” Nick said.

“You typed it wrong, Grand. We want to go to St. Mary’s,” Tim said.

“It’s our last chance before they cremate the bodies.”

Tim sat up. “Cremate? Mom and Dad are dead?

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Before the truck could even come to a complete stop, Grand jumped out, reached behind the seats of the cab, and pulled out two antique blowers—the kind their mom and dad kept by the fireside next to the poker and ash scooper. Of course, they never used them, since the fire was only a hologram.

Grand took several long strides to the top of the stairs and pulled open the doors. The cobalt blue foyer smelled like a hundred years of perfume, dutifully marching in and out every Sunday.

“They really are dead,” Tim whispered, choking back tears.

Grand reached for the sanctuary door.

“Wait,” Tim protested. “You can’t just march into a funeral service. We’re not even dressed for it.”

“Erik and Sonya are in there. I am responsible for them.”

“Responsible for them?”

Grand opened the door a crack. An air-conditioned breeze and speaker’s eulogy slipped through.

“. . .will be missed. Sonya was also a good person, a beautiful person. She was a woman in the prime of her days, with so much left to give to society. She liked shopping, the reality show, Laguna Beach Girls and—”

Grand flung the sanctuary doors open.

“Grand . . .” Tim covered his face.

The speaker, a thin man whose scalp majored more on skin than hair, tracked the great, old man marching down the aisle.

“Testimonies will be after the rap duet, Mister?” The speaker waited for a response he would never get. Grand walked straight to the closed caskets and flipped the lids back like playing cards.

The audience inhaled.

“Grand is insane,” Nick laughed.

Grand grabbed their mom by the collar and slung her over his left shoulder. He turned a full revolution, her blond hair sweeping around.

Adult voices shouted. “Sonya! . . . Oh no, he’s grabbing for Erik, too!”

Teenage voices joined the commentators. “Awesome—No way! That old dude ripped the lid right off!”

Grand heaved their dad onto his other shoulder. He turned to the audience, paused for a moment to steady himself, and then offered his own parting words, “Carry on.”

The bodies swayed in beat with Grand’s march up the aisle.

“Linus! Say something,” a woman hissed from the front row.

Linus’ expression could be described as cadaverous.

“Linus!”

“Um—I’m, well, er. Yes, yes. Er—Erik and Sonya have gone to a better place—”

“Linus!” she hissed.

“Well—well, what I mean to say is . . .”

Grand rolled the bodies to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Nick closed the sanctuary doors.

“They’re dead!” Tim pulled the locks of his hair. “You just hauled our dead Mom and Dad out of a funeral service—in front of everyone!”

“First, they’re not your parents. Second, they’re not dead.” Grand rolled their dad onto his stomach, his nose crunching into the blue carpet.

“Not dead?” Nick looked to Tim.

“They should be, grant you that. Trackers put enough poison in their diet sodas to kill a herd of gwinters. But these are mimes.” Grand looked at the very confused boys. “Duplicates, copies. They do appear dead to any modern physician. Nearly on the brink of it, I would imagine. But these particular ones happen to be very difficult to kill. I should know. I bred them that way.”

“Bred?” Tim mouthed.

Nick could only stare at what Grand claimed were copies