Summer Honeymoon

Summer Honeymoon read her book in the peace of absolute solitude. Her being, after all, the last person on earth.

Her time neared its end, she was aware of that. But still, the pounding on her door startled her. She looked up from her novel in annoyance. She sighed and set the book down, cracked open on the arm of the chair.

“Easy, dude. Another hour and I’d have finished,” she lamented, the words echoing through the monastery’s sepulchral chamber. With this level of urgency, the intruder had to be a man. She uncrossed her legs and stretched, gulped down the last of three fingers of Irish whiskey, then launched the empty tumbler into the embers of an ebbing fire with exaggerated contempt. “All the time in the world. Now, I’ll never know what happened to Poirot.”

The knock came again, three impatient reports from what certainly had to be an impressively large fist. Or a decent-sized hammer. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on, cowboy.”

Summer stepped into a pair of gray, fuzzy slippers shaped like the Starship Enterprise, threw on a robe, and descended the stairs with the grace of a starlet to the tall wooden doors. Despite her advanced years, Summer still appeared as she had when she first arrived long ago: a thirty-year-old woman with long, dirty-blonde hair, pale skin, and a predilection for hot pink comfy pants. This pair sported a flock of brightly-colored cartoon ducks.

The wooden beam that barred the door slid aside easily in the iron stops, oiled and weathered by centuries of use. She may have been alone on planet Earth for centuries, but a girl still had to be careful. Summer opened the door, blinking in the sun's brightness despite the heavy fog outside. “Go away. We don’t want any,” she said to the man standing before her in the walled courtyard. He was prodigious in size, thick through a chest covered in scars and the rough-cut furs of dead animals and wearing the ornamental bracers of an experienced archer. He held a sword in his hand, a forward-curved short blade with a black handle. Summer could see the pretentiously ornamented hilt of a second over his shoulder. She looked him up and down and found him to be…serviceable. She turned, leaving the door open behind her. “J.K.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. Come on in,” she yawned, waving a hand over her shoulder.

“I am Cahir,” the man grunted. “Cahir of Snaefelles.”

“Sure. Hi, Carl of Snortful. I’m Summer. Summer of…right here.” she said, pointing two fingers at the floor. “I’ve been expecting you, Carl. Kind of. I’ve been expecting someone, anyway. Do you feel the need for a drink?”

“It is Cahir,” the warrior said, menace in his voice. “I am Cahir of…”

She held up a hand, palm facing him. “Whatever, sunshine. It doesn’t matter, does it?” Summer backed up the short staircase and gave him a smile. “I’m going to fix a drink. Do you have a preference? I’ve got…well, I’ve got everything.”

Cahir stepped into the room, nervously glancing from side to side, sword brandished before him, checking his corners.

“No? Sippy-sip? Guzzle? Slurp?” 

The warrior continued to scan the room, ignoring her question.

“Wine it is.” Summer opened a cabinet, reached for a Riesling, then glanced at Cahir and shook her head, opting for a nice, hearty Malbec instead. “I’m having whiskey,” she said, filling a glass for him and herself. Cahir climbed the stairs. His eyes scrutinized every corner for threats.

“It’s just us, Carl,” Summer said, holding out the wine.

Hesitantly, the giant took the goblet in his hand, sniffed the wine, and then held the smoky glass up to the light, scrutinizing the contents. “Do you wish to poison me?”

“Hah!” Summer laughed. “Fuck no, Carl of Sniffles. Why would I want to do that?” She sipped her whiskey, raising an eyebrow at her visitor, who dipped a finger in the glass and smelled it. “Seriously? It’s wine. Do I have to taste it for you, too?”

Cahir emptied the wine onto the stone floor, then threw the glass away from him. Glass shards tinkled on the stairs like rain. “I am not your fool,” he said. “Deceiver.”

“Man stuff!” Summer shrieked, then threw her glass in the other direction. Her tumbler shattered on the wall near the fireplace, sending a shower of whiskey across the stone. She held her hands up by her head as if they were claws. “Savage! Grrrrr! I’m so threatening! Boogeyman!” In response, Cahir raised his sword. Summer ignored the physical threat, walking instead to a set of double doors on the far side of the room. “The first person I see in two centuries, and he’s the embodiment of toxic masculinity.” She flung the doors open, revealing a storeroom with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with liquor bottles of every shape, size, and description. “Come here, Carl. Pick one for yourself,” she waved him into the room. “It’s not like I could poison them all. And, as I said, I’ve got everything.”

Cahir slowly approached, his sword pointed in her general direction while he ogled the largesse of the overflowing shelves. “So much for just you?” For the first time, he seemed more puzzled than angry. Or dangerous.

“Yeah, for just me. What can I say?” She put her thumb and forefinger together. “I’m a wee bit of an alcoholic.” She handed Cahir a mug from a shelf near the door. “Help yourself. I’m going to go poop and then fix us something to eat.”

#

Almost an hour later, Summer kicked back in the kitchen, feet up on the table among a diverse assembly of pewter and wooden dishes, the broken remains of a pair of hastily devoured chickens strewn about haphazardly. The shattered corpses of glassware littered the floor, victims of Cahir’s enthusiastic style. On a 1960’s vintage turntable nearby, the Byrds’ Mr. Tambourine Man played softly. Cahir, deep into his second jug of cinnamon-apple moonshine and minus his anachronistic kopi, leaned back in a brown leather recliner and belched. Summer closed her eyes, matching his sonic effusion with one of her own, earning a nod of respect from the Celtic warrior.

“Why am I here, woman?” He didn’t waste time with preambles.

Summer smiled without opening her eyes. She had switched out the glass for a full bottle of Jameson. Nothing but the good stuff, and lots of it, for her last day on earth. “You’re taking my place, man,” she emphasized the word sarcastically. “It’s just like when I took old…what’s-his-name’s place.” She sat up, feet on the floor. “What was his name? Something white and stupid.” She belched again, and took another swig from the bottle. “Damn. I’ve seen exactly two people in the last two hundred years, and I can’t remember the name of one of them.”

“It is dishonorable to forget a man’s name,” the barbarian tilted a half-full Ball jar at her for emphasis, coppery-looking drink sloshing over the edge. “A man’s name holds his power.”

“Yeah? Well, his name must have been Richard because he was a dick.” She reached for the bottle and stopped, noticing her hands. The skin on them, typically clear and lissom, had grown loose and dry. Blue veins showed through against pale white. “So, uh, Chuck…,”

“Cahir,” the warrior corrected again. Though his voice still held an edge, he had softened somewhat. Authentic Kentucky moonshine just did that to a guy.

“How old are you, Chuck?”

“Old?”

“How many years?”

“I have seen twenty-three winters,” he said, though Summer could sense he wasn’t confident in his answer.

“Any chance you’d want to, you know…?” She splayed her fingers out. “Git it? You know? Get busy?”

“Busy doing what?”

“CU-46?”

Cahir looked confused and shook his head, setting the jar on the table. “I do not know your meaning.”

“A teeny skylark? Clap cheeks?”

“What?”

“Crush the spicy eggplant?”

“I have no idea…”

“Heh,” she laughed, shaking off the idea. “Never mind. One question?”

“Yes?”

“Do I look older to you? Like, old?” She stretched her hands in front of her, squinting at them, only realizing now that her vision had started to go as well. There are no optometrists in the apocalypse.

He jerked upright in the recliner, the leather squeaking as he peered at her, discomfort written in his eyes. “It is the light in here. Too dim from the fire. I cannot make anything clear.”

Summer smiled. “Nice one, Cahir,” she said, emphasizing his name and earning a grin in return. “Even in your time, you know better than to insult a woman’s appearance.”

He leaned forward. “Listen carefully to my words: I am Cahir Brakebourne, son of Cai and rightful chieftain of my people,” Cahir said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I have fought many wars and slain many foes. I have never been defeated in battle. But I know better than to upset Niamh with my words.”

“Niamh?”

“My wife,” he laughed into the mouth of the jar. “She scares me. Often until I mess myself.”

“Smart man,” Summer laughed.

He nodded at her once, rock-hard chin lifting. “Who are you, woman?”

Summer’s eyes narrowed, and she pursed her lips. Then she leaned forward and caught Cahir’s eyes. “My name is Summer Autumn Honeymoon. Defender of San Dimas, California. Daughter of Dougie the Pedophile and Marjorie the Blind. Slayer of half of the graduating class of Twenty-Seven. Take that, Amber-Rae!” She raised her bottle toward Cahir.

He nodded, brow furrowed with what Summer saw as respect. “We will drink.” He touched his jar to her bottle. “One warrior to another. Strength and honor.”

“San Dimas High School football rules!” Summer took a pull from the bottle and slammed it onto the table with exaggerated drama.

“How did I find you?” Cahir asked after a long pause. “This…this place…,”

“It is…it was, a Tibetan monastery,” Summer helped. “It was called the Tiger’s Nest.”

“A brave name.” Cahir nodded, looking around, pleased. “I traveled across many lands, by boat, through deserts, and over hills to find you. The land teems with animals but no people. I was always alone. Always moving toward…here. How? This…Tiger’s Nest is on the side of a mountain.”

Summer cracked her knuckles. “I don’t know, my friend. That’s part of the whole thing. The curse? The job? I don’t know. Believe me, I had to do the same thing when it was my turn a long, long time ago. And that asshole hid out in a submarine. It took me years to find him! I was in a rowboat when he finally surfaced under me off the coast of Argentina.”

Her bottle was empty, and, she realized, her time verged on conclusion. Sleep threatened the edges of her mind.

“So, uh. Hey. Cahir. Do you want to get high?”

“High?” One eyebrow raised in confusion. “We are already high in this temple. Are we to climb?”

Summer smiled and stood. “Only a tiny bit.” Tightening the belt on her flowered robe, she offered Cahir her hand. Her skin had noticeably begun to sag, and the brown spots of age had appeared. “Come on, barbarian. Let me show you.”

Cahir took the offered hand and stood. Summer led him through a maze of corridors, guiding him to the highest point of the temple.

“Chad Whipple! That was his name!” Summer held a door to another courtyard open for the warrior. “What an absolute dick.”

#

“I’m really going to miss this place,” Summer held the joint out to Cahir. It had taken him a moment to appreciate the drug, but he had adapted to her offerings with gusto. Inhaling deeply, he held the smoke in his lungs as she’d taught him. She had also introduced him to Irish whiskey, in which he likewise expressed an unabashed enthusiasm. No surprise there. And it was a step up from the moonshine; she believed deep in her soul.

The air filled with fog that rose up from the valley, draping their late-afternoon view with mystery. Vertical gray and brown stone mountains stood behind them, the barricades and parapets of the monastery’s white buildings covered with splotchy green moss. Before them, the great valley revealed grand vistas in brief moments through tendrils of wispy white smoke as if breathed from the nostrils of a great dragon, open to windows of lavish, elusive beauty.

Summer grew visibly older by the minute; her spine stooped from rapid-onset osteoporosis, the heartbreak of psoriasis visible on furrowed elbows. Her hair, once as smooth as cornsilk, grew brittle and went to gray. Cahir, for his part, pretended not to notice, becoming, to her surprise, the embodiment of what would have been called a ‘gentleman.’ Still, she caught concerned glances when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. With some regret, she realized that her last opportunity for goodbye sex had surely passed. She should have pushed him harder to understand: there had to be a Celtic dictionary around here somewhere.

“It is beautiful, this tiger’s nest,” Cahir said, elbows leaning on a balustrade, the joint in his hand adding its own breathy whispers to the fog’s dance. “Like no world I had ever dreamed.”

Summer nodded, her throat suddenly dry. She felt weak and knew her time was at an end. “One of the perks of the job, buddy. You can go anywhere you want and live there. Find what is most beautiful to you, and make it your home.”

“You chose this fortress as your home?”

“I didn’t know this place existed. I was…compelled to come to this valley to kill off a bunch of monkeys that got too clever with some pieces of stone they’d found. I found them whacking away at another cartload of monkeys with rocks and sticks. There was blood everywhere. They all had to be put down.”

“But why?” Cahir drank liberally from his bottle. He held it out to Summer.

“That’s the job, sunshine.” She took just enough from the bottle to wet her throat. “Near as I can tell.” She joined him, leaning out over the emptiness. “Once I was finished with the monkeys, I didn’t know what to do, where to go. One day, I looked up and saw this place and decided to move in. I’ve been here ever since. About, I don’t know, maybe forty-five years or so now?” She didn’t know what year it was.

“And that is it?”

She nodded and patted his hand. Her joints hurt, and it was difficult to move. In a minute, she’d need to lie down. “That’s it. If an otter somewhere even thinks of picking up a stick to bust open a clam, a week later, you’ll be there to kill that otter and every living thing that had ever seen it.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “There’s no instruction manual. No mysterious phone call with the important clue to tie it all together. You just…know you’re supposed to do something deep in your bones, and you go do it. Like how you found me here. It was just what you had to do. To be honest, I think we just screwed the world over so much that the universe, or god, or…?”

“Dagda?”

“Sure. Dagda. Why not? Dagda decided to let the world move on without us. We’re here to stop evolution from happening again.”

“But why me?”

“Why you? Why not you? Why me? I don’t know. The best I can figure out is that you have the stomach to do it. You’re a warrior. You fought for your people. You’ll kill when you have to. Me? Well, not the same, but…that judge didn’t seem to think there was a difference. Chad Whipple? Who knows what his story was. He spent so much time trying to get away from me that he never told me shit. I had to figure this all out myself.”

“How did I get here?”

“Let me ask you this. What is the last thing you remember? I mean, of before. When things were normal for you.”

He thought for a moment, running a meaty hand across that rock-hard chin. “We sat for a feast, my warriors and I, having slain all of Jannon’s…” He fell silent.

“Uh-huh,” Summer said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m guessing you missed some.”

“There were arrows,” he said. “Many arrows.”

“So. You were killed and then woke up here.” She shook her head. “The last thing I remember was making a nice, comfortable noose out of my California state-issued bedsheets. I figured thirteen years in jail was enough for any girl. Then, poof! The tale of Chad Whipple and his magic submarine.”

“It is all gone?”

“Your world? Your life? Niamh?”

“Yes.” Summer could hear the longing in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Chuck. You seem cool, but yeah. It’s all gone.” She gave him a moment, then looked out at the valley and sighed. “It’s time.” Her voice was raspy and weak. She looked up at Cahir, and suddenly felt very foolish in hot pink pants and Star Trek footies. “Give a lady a hand, will you?”

Cahir nodded, lifting Summer easily and setting the old woman on the ledge before them.

“Thanks.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I can’t believe I’m dying in duck pajamas. Anyway, good luck.”

“Thank you, Lady Summer. I shall honor you in my prayers.”

“You’ve got a lot to figure out. But don’t worry. You’ve got a lot of time to do it.” She ran a finger through her hair. “Whatever arises, carry it to the path.”

“What does that mean?” Cahir asked.

“I have no idea.” Summer smiled at him. “Watch out for walking fish. Oh, and someone will be along in about two hundred years.”

With that, she rolled forward and dropped through the dragon’s breath, out of sight, leaving Cahir alone.