“I left it all in Winter,” I told him.

“Did you, now?” His voice was grave probing. “All of it?” 

I considered the question, looking away from him for the moment. At my sad smile, he sipped his beverage and looked away from me, nodding at my thoughts, my remembrances. 

“Whatever possessed you to do it?” he asked. 

“Well…” I met his gaze once more. “Everything else seemed to be naked. It just seemed to be what was done there, in Winter. Lord knows I hadn't been happy in what I'd been wearing for some time since.” 

“But the difficulty!” 

“Well, yes…the difficulty.” I paused, gauging how much to share. He caressed the rim of his steaming mug, absently, and seeing the warmth weave about his fingers reminded me of the searing cold that had burnt my fingers, just a few weeks ago. 

“It was incredibly difficult, dragging my dead husband's body out of the house and out to the snowy woods,” I said. “It was a terrible dream, you see. He had actually died, and none of us-- not me, not our kids--had witnessed his death or his departure. Except, I had…sort of: Just the tips of his silver hair, visible through the back window as the hearse left the property. Our home. And now he was just gone. That was reality. Gone, when I came home from work. Gone, while our children were away at school, happy for a moment, ignorant of this perfectly horrid reality.” 

Someone pressed a hot mug of chamomile into my hands, with cream and honey. An unusual, but welcome touch. “It's like my mind was trying to make sense of why he wasn't home, and protect the kids from having to share in this torturous labor of--I don't actually know what I was trying to do. So, by the time I had dragged his body only halfway to the woods, I was exhausted. I tripped and dropped his torso, then fell on top of him, weeping and apologizing.

“Clear as day, he said, ‘I'll survive it.’ Mind you, the corpse didn't speak. It was him, just back of my head or inside it, or to the right.” I sipped the hot tea. “Absurd as it was, I believed him! Obviously, he had survived shedding his body. Here he was, walking with me, comforting me, untroubled by the cold; untroubled, even, by my grief.”

“He would be,” the old man with the frosty eyes said. “They usually are. Untroubled, that is. And so, where did that lead you?” 

“Onto my back at first, right there, next to his body. Right there, with my back against the Earth, looking up at a barren, gray, sky through the naked branches of the trees. I just lay there and slowly realized that, in Winter, nothing is enough.” 

The old man grunted. “‘Tis true, or nearly so. Not even the birds spend any time doing or making. They just get a bite of food and get back to the nest, keeping cozy. Nothing to it.” 

“Well, I reasoned that, if trees could live with no leaves, and brooks with no current, and skies with no sun, then, surely, I--even devoid of breath, it seemed--could survive until the new season came.”

“So, you divested.” The old man tumbled his eyes in a way that intimated he was calculating where I might have left those things in Winter. I could feel his mind scenting for the spot. “Tell me a bit more,” he rasped. “Tell me exactly what you left behind.”

Just then another man joined us, clad in a green, knitted thong, high leather boots, and a jaunty, little vest. His long, powerful thighs and firm, flat stomach seemed to point, pointedly, at his verdant horn of fertility. “Ded Moroz,” he said to the old man, “you're a long way from home!” 

The old man wrinkled his nose at the younger man's costume. “Well, I could say the same of you, Freyr. Besides, it’s still the edge of Winter.” 

Freyr scoffed at the old man's heavy, hooded cloak, long, beard and felted boots. “It's properly Spring!”

“Which begs the question, why are you here?” 

“It's Texas.” Freyr shrugged. “I'm just there, at the end of the week. And who's this?” Freyr’s  attention had finally returned to me. 

“Traveler,” Ded Moroz whispered, wetting his lips. “She was just about to tell me what she left in Winter.” 

I should’ve had an answer by now, but the summer god, Freyr, was absolutely enchanting. I gave my head a little shake, to clear my senses. “Obligation was the first thing to go. I realized I didn't need to pay rent on suffering just to signal to the living, or the dead, that I was properly grieving. That was nice to--how did you call it? Divesting? That felt really good. But right on the heels of that, I think more than a mask fell off.”  My fingers clenched my half-full mug as a spasm of anxiety came over me. 

Ded Moroz sighed a quiet, delightful, “Ahhhh,” as he peered into my memories. “Completely naked,” he murmured.  Freyr gave a slow, appreciative look into my eyes and, as he broke contact with my mind, he glanced at my lips. Thankfully, he said nothing. 

“The whole thing just collapsed in the snow next to his body.” I ticked the elements on my fingers as I named this thing. “Selfless servant, emotional caregiver, concierge, ball-and-hitch to hold him to the family, endlessly patient helpmeet. It all just fell down and died. I didn't think it ever would, but there it was! And there I was next to two dead people.”

“Well, that's awfully grim,” grimaced Freyr. “Why do you do this, Ded Moroz? Find some poor soul sitting alone in a bar and ask them all about this drivel?” 

“I'm richer than I've ever before been,” I said, quietly, to Freyr, then drank deeply of my tea. 

“For much the same reason that you, you overgrown weed, saunter around in Spring to look at the newly naked people: It’s interesting. And I like to meet them here and compare them to the piles they leave behind.” Ded Moroz waved someone over to our table, then gathered his walking staff close and creakily stood up. He asked me, “How are you feeling now, thus unburdened, on the edge of Spring?” 

“Ooh, who's on the edge?” A cheerful voice bubbled. I smiled as a flirty woman with flowers in her hair sauntered over, with a jiggle in her full, rounded hips. She was clad in a belly dancer’s jingle-belt and a grin. This, clearly, was an icon of Spring fertility. 

“Aphrodite,” Freyr purred his greeting. 

Aphrodite’s smile vanished. “Freyr, go home.” She commanded him as one commands a wayward dog. “It’s not time for you.”

“But it’s Texas,” he pouted.

“Exactly. No one, no living thing needs you loitering about, getting everything hot and bothered this early. They'll have quite enough of you by July.” 

Freyr pointed at the grizzled Ded Moroz, who let his gaze linger on the lovely Aphrodite's perfect beauty. “Why does he get to linger and I don't?” 

“Because, when he lingers, it gives me more flowers and makes my peaches come out extra juicy.” She flirted outrageously with the old man. He blushed deeply and straightened with a smile. “Now, Freyr,” Aphrodite said, pointing to the exit. 

Freyr took my hand in his and asked, huskily, “Will I see you at Beltane?” Aphrodite sighed and rolled her eyes. Freyr winked at me. “It’s Texas. I’ll see you at Beltane.”

Gods above! That knitted thong! I withdrew my hand from his and buried my face in my mug. Freyr left, flirting with others on his way out. 

“Well,” said Aphrodite, turning her attention to me. “How are you feeling on the edge of Spring?”

I floundered, uncomfortable with the question. “I'm okay, I guess. Lighter. Sometimes dizzy, I'm so light!  And then, just…cloudy, I guess?” She sat in the chair Ded Moroz had vacated and held my hands in hers on the tabletop. “It's like I'm just getting ideas of ideas; like a scent with no flowers in sight. Then the next day? Nothing. Nothing again. And it's not bad. It's just disconcerting. What if nothing is not enough in Spring?” 

She patted my hand. “I know what that's like. Flowers bloom, then blow away and the trees lapse back into dormancy. It's par for Spring, let it be. It’s the season for new ideas, wisps of things blowing on the wind. Not all of them will come to fruition, but all of the little temporary things have so much value, just in their ephemeral existence, their temporariness.” 

“I guess so,” I mumbled, cheering up in spite of myself. She was utterly carefree in her natural state. 

“That's right, dear. All the myriad, temporary things are a testament to the abundance of magic and possibility that surround us at any given time. In Springtime, you don't have to know. It is enough to be open. To be nothing, and open, and willing to grow.” 

I decided I liked that. And then, I woke up.

Rear Admiral Broussard gritted his teeth and leaned into the console, gripping the rail that outlined the edges of the cabinet. “Say again,” he growled into the mic.

Static cut the airman’s transmission intermittently. “I said it’s—oddammed—octopus I’ve ever—” The transmission went dead, and the luminescent green dot on the radar faded to black. 

The ship lurched forward and drifted almost imperceptibly to the starboard side. “What in James hell is going on with the engines?” Broussard barked over his shoulder.

“Come again?” Air traffic controllers down the short line were asking the same question, holding headsets tighter to their ears. Broussard flicked a switch that brought all pilots’ channels live onto the speaker.

“Airships, goddammit! With laser guns. Like a swarm of bees—”

“—Came out of nowhere over the ice shelf and opened fire—”

“I’m not gonna say it. They’re luminescent. Glowing metal. Like a disco ball but all flattened out. Jesus! He’s right on top of me! That’s imp—” 

Another green dot faded from the radar. And another. And another.

“Admiral?” The First Mate probed Admiral Broussard with a tense gaze.

“Scramble ‘em. And get me visual on the combat field, stat.”

“Aye, sir! Scrambling,” First Mate acknowledged.

“Connecting Visual, sir!” The Comm Officer replied.

Broussard kept one hand on the cabinet rail and squinted out the mist-covered windows of the bridge. “Engineering, status report.”

“Aye, sir. Engines operational and running at thirty knots, sir.”

“Bearing?” Broussard swiveled to look at the navigator.

“Steady on course, sir, sixteen point six degrees south-by-southeast—”

“Would someone please explain to me why the ass-end of this ship is sliding to port!”

“Sir?”

Rear Admiral Broussard grabbed the navigator by the scruff and lifted him away from his monitor and set him down in front of the thick pane of the glass window. He jammed a pair of binoculars into the junior officer’s hands. “Every bird we’re launching off this tarmac is having to bank starboard-side the instant it clears the throw-zone just to stay on-trajectory. There’s no wind,” Broussard jabbed a finger in the direction of the anemometer mounted on the deck. The little cups moved less than a quarter-turn and then stopped. 

The navigator watched through the binoculars as an F-14 Tomcat was launched from the tarmac. Less than a second later the plane gave the barest twitch of a rotation to the right and proceeded onward. 

“Admiral, we have visual on the field.” The Comm Officer’s voice was quiet in the chaos, her eyes reflecting a keen sense of gravity.

Admiral Broussard turned the dial down on the speaker volume, wanting to maintain contact with his aviators in the air, and brought a curled hand to rest on his lower lip. “Is this a whirlybird?”

“Aye sir, this is the view from chopper 17C.”

“Tell him to stay back and maintain his position. Do not engage.” The Comm Officer relayed his message to the helicopter pilot. “God, what a shit show.” Broussard sighed.

On-screen, the bridge crew watched for a long, stunned moment as a fleet of flying saucers assembled into formation at the edge of the Antarctic coast. Bits of American aircraft bobbed like flotsam on the strangely troubled waters of the Southern Pacific. 

The Admiral lifted a phone receiver and dialed in a long string of numbers on the touchpad. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he waited for SATCOM to connect, and then held the mouthpiece tight against his shoulder for a moment. “Captain, put those birds on recon-only. Do not engage,” he said to the Executive Officer.

“Recon only, Admiral,” the XO affirmed and began to speak into his headset.

Admiral Broussard put the phone back to his face and spoke an alphanumeric code into the receiver, then said, “I am staring at a fleet of flying saucers in battle formation near Gessner Peak, and the remains of one cruiser and its squadron scattered across the waves. Final reports from the air mentioned lasers and…an octopus. How do you want me to—? Yes, sir. Standing by.”

Broussard squinted through the thick paned glass of the bridge at the surface of the sea. He watched in consternation as the waves turned smooth and glassy, and bubbles gurgled up to break the surface. 

“Sir?” The XO relayed a report just received through his headset. “Airmen are reporting the spaceships are holding formation but retreating back over the land mass.”

“Acknowledged,” Broussard said, just as the aircraft carrier gave a lurch and all personnel on the bridge gasped in dismay, reaching out to grab rails and handholds. “Recon only, that order stands.”

A voice broke through on the telephone receiver. “Pacific Fleet, this is Air National Guard, Space Command. Go ahead.”

Broussard held the receiver close to his ear, and all the color drained from his face. A hundred and fifty yards ahead of them something emerged from the water—something enormous, like a hilltop tumbling upward in a single, fluid motion that defied understanding, the way it just kept rotating up, up, up. 

“Go ahead, Pacific. This is Space Command,” the masculine voice crackled on the line in a Texas drawl. 

“It’s going sideways,” Admiral Broussard said in wonder.

“Say again?” Space command asked.

“The carrier. It’s just sliding sideways like a toy.”

“You’ve got spaceships? Antarctic coast near Gessner Peak?”

“Yeah.” Broussard exhaled in a long quiet whoosh of dread as first three, then five tentacles like rubbery skyscrapers broke through the water’s surface and stabbed at the cold grey sky. “Big octopus, too,” he murmured into the receiver. 

A crewman opened the door and stepped outside onto the narrow deck at the top of the stairs. Cold humid air slithered into the bridge accompanied by a loud slurping, sucking sound, like a bilge pump choking on silt. More of the crew crowded up to the window panes to have a look at the impossibility facing them. 

Only the communications officer stayed on his headset, furiously typing and turning dials on the console before him. “Admiral, I think I may have a break into comms from those, um, air ships. It sounds like German, sir. They’re laughing, saying something about a monkrie. They say...they’re placing bets on how long before we die, sir. I think they’re calling that thing monkrie. I don’t have a transl--”

A sound, initially mistaken by Admiral Broussard to be the emergency alert system, but far louder, and far lower pitched blasted all around them, seemed to tear the very atmosphere away from their bodies. Glass exploded, ears bled, people hit the deck, and all the electronics and motors--all of it shut off as by a switch. The ship pitched horribly and rolled, causing the crew to slide helter-skelter across whatever surface they had just fallen against. Admiral Broussard gripped his head in agony, his mouth turned downward in violent grimace, and looked through the doorway as the door banged against the wall outside. He watched Chopper 17C fall from the sky and thought, how clumsy. He watched the Tomcats take aggressive maneuvers and rain hell-fire onto that…monkrie.

The giant octopus swatted at them. It dragged another long, slurping breath of air into its head though dank, fleshy slits in its gaping maw. And then it emitted another trumpeting blast that went on and on and on. Broussard blacked out a moment before his brains, his eyes, his heart and kidneys were ruptured by the devastating air pressure of the monkrie’s distress call.