He ran blindly along the shoreline, heeding neither the whistling wind that rushed about him nor the pouring rain that raged against him like some vengeful god, waiting only for the final burst of self-disgust which would send him at last to his death in the booming surf. And, as he ran, he thought of all he was running from --
He ran from the voice on the phone of that bastard Crispen, his lawyer, his so-called 'friend', too cowardly to tell him in person that the mysterious backers of this terrible enterprise had become suspicious, that they were coming to 'investigate'; and the final betrayal, that Crispen was cutting himself out of the deal, leaving Hawley to face the consequences alone; and Hawley knew that it would be better this way, better than letting them get hold of him --
He ran from the possible recriminations of his wife's family: they had never wanted her to marry him; he had often suspected that they didn't want her to marry anyone, that they wanted her to be dependent upon them forever.
But now his ambitious recklessness had fulfilled all their worst fears, their perverse hopes; he had lost what was boastfully but accurately described as the ancient family home; he had lost the place where his dear wife Emily had been born and raised and lived through all her twenty-three years of life, leaving her only the tiny, fragile beach-house to shelter her from all the coming storms --
And finally, finally, he ran from his wife, his own beloved Emily. He had robbed her, abused her, publicly humiliated her, and now he could no longer face her as she pathetically murmured to herself, over and over again, "If only we had a child, Conrad, everything would be better, more stable, more like a normal family."
The sound of her had driven him half-mad in that tiny cottage. He knew that she could not bear the trials that would await her, the harassment of his enemies, the scorn of their former friends, eventually the police, even her own family, who said they loved her so much -- all of it would make her life a living hell.
And as he ran he could find nothing in his heart save only the desire to being it all to an end, the fervent hope that the wind and sea would rise up to swallow both him and the miserable hut that now sheltered Emily, swallow them both with one crashing, just, and final blow.
With that thought, his self-hatred took possession of him. It sent him swerving from his erratic course along the sea's edge directly out into the wildly beckoning surf. A wave rolled in from the far horizon and promptly knocked him down. He rose and tried to rush farther out, but the waves teased him like a playful fisherman, pulling him further in, only to throw him back again.
Suddenly, a bright young voice called out, ringing clearly over the crashing waves: "If you would play with my children tonight, Conrad Hawley, you must be strong -- far stronger than you are now."
Not alone -- in this place -- upon a night like this.... Hawley turned and saw, not far distant, surrounded by the surging tidal waters, a rock, a high boulder shaped like the throne of some ancient sea-king. Sitting smack-dab in the middle was what he thought at first was just a little girl. It wasn't.
Dark wind blowing wave-struck hair, she stood as if to greet him, herself unswayed by the storm, the simple white dress she wore whipped close about her, concealing the woman none.
Hawley stood transfixed. Could she be real? he thought. Or was she only a dream? Too beautiful to be real -- too improbable to be anything more than a dream. He felt that he might close his eyes for a moment and the whole scene would vanish. And yet he sensed that she might close her eyes and he might be the one to vanish; in her way, she seemed to be the most real thing upon that barren beach tonight, more real than the beach or the storm, more real even than himself.
As he approached the rock and the woman, he became less and less mindful of the waves that struck him. Then standing directly before her, he called up to this figure which had continued to smile mysteriously down at him.
"Who are you?" he asked. "What are you?"
Her smile widened, as if to say that his question was somehow foolish.
"Why, my darling little boy, don't you recognize the results of your own experiments?"
Hawley was confused by her answer. He didn't know if he understood what she meant and he didn't want to try -- its strange mixture of sarcasm and reverence disturbed him.
Not knowing what else to say, he asked, "What are you doing here?"
Her ecstatic smile broadened.
She raised her arms to the elements, the raging wind and savage water, and cried out, "I Have Come to Herald the Marriage of Sea and Sky!"
And then, like a graceful seal, she came, water splashing, down the rock-face to stand before him, laughing.
"Come, you'll catch your death."
Hawley was totally dumbfounded by this. She took his hand, still laughing playfully, and led him up the beach to a small cabin that seemed even tinier and shabbier than the one he'd left. On the rotting and peeling porch, she let go of his hand and peeled off her soaking-wet dress. A twinge of conscience for his desolate and lonely wife, now miles away down the beach, came to haunt Hawley, but the hot feeling in his groin was stronger; nakedness had only emphasized this girl's measured grace. She entered the cabin, partly turning, and coyly gestured him to follow.
He entered but now she had disappeared. He stood there, alone, looking around, and in a moment she had come back into the room through the only other door, rubbing her nakedness with a large towel.
"Why don't you take those wet things off?" she asked. "It's a very warm night."
The power of suggestion is very powerful. He began to sweat. Very uncertainly, he began unbuttoning his shirt.
"I'm sorry, you'll want one of these, won't you?" She handed him her towel. "I'll get another."
She skipped into the next room again, leaving him there, holding the towel. It seemed to radiate heat. He hugged it close, absorbing the lingering traces of her aura, feeling himself being both filled and made ready for more.
She returned, a dry towel draped absently around her, leaving smooth, bare shoulders exposed. Hawley, now beyond all thought of Emily, raced to her, embraced her, kissing her passionately. She returned the embrace, the kiss. But her lips felt strangely cold, without the warmth that radiated from the rest of her. At last, he tore himself away.
He searched her eyes, looking for some trace of feeling.
"Who are you? How do you know who I am? And what do you want with me?"
She only laughed.
"I thought I told you to undress, Mr. Hawley. Now you're dripping all over my bedroom floor. Must I do everything for you?"
She unbuttoned his wet shirt, peeling it away from his body, the radiant energy now coming full force from her tarrying hands, undressing him, caressing him, filling him with intoxicating warmth, robbing him of his will to resist.
As she lay him down upon her bed, his last words to her were, "Don't hurt me...please don't hurt me...."