Triton

By Aeglira Priest

The Children of the Sea is a cult which offers its members sex, drugs and freedom. The freedom is absolute, as long as each member obeys the charismatic cult leaders.
Peter is the son of those leaders. He is also one of the few who dislike the violence which is used to control cult members. When he escapes, he hides his identity so as to avoid vicious revenge from the cult.

When Peter is finally found, he is asked to help other cult escapees to discover the secrets of the long-disappeared cult leaders.

One of the drugs, "Water" has given its users a extended long life. Peter and his own baby daughter are infused with the drug. Without the drug, all of the cult members are now dying. Only Peter can understand his parents' cryptic clues. He follows the clues to the source of the Water.

The remaining cult members need the drug. Without the drug, Peter's own child will soon die.

They travel to the island of Atlantis. On the island Peter's parents, the missing leaders of the cult have set lethal traps. They are protecting their drug. They also wish to kill Peter, in punishment for his escape from the cult.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aeglira Priest
• Release date: May 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463178188

Aeglira Priest

Hi there :-) I'm not really the author but I love this book! The real author has a real job and no time to publish a book. So I'll do it for him.Lots of love,... Aeglira===The author enjoys being a lawyer. His law work takes all of his time.He also enjoys writing, which also takes all of his time.His next book is Judgment, which takes the law into space.

Book preview

Triton

PART ONE - EUBOEA

One

8 November

Ella was two days old and about to die.

Peter watched his daughter’s failing body, unmoving in the hospital cot. The soft, slow beep of the heart-rate monitor, the only sign of life.

Her mother, Grace, sat folded over the bed. Her head rested against the baby’s tiny chest. She had run out of tears long ago.

Grace had asked for a single room. Some privacy for the final moments. The request was denied. The baby was, she was told, too sick to be moved from intensive care. If you can’t save her, Grace had pleaded. At least let her die in peace. The doctors were moved by her plea but overruled by policy. While her daughter’s life slipped away, the efficient bustle of the hospital continued unabated behind a thin plastic curtain.

Peter held Grace’s hand. He could not think of anything else to do. Sometimes, a nurse had said, God has other plans for our young ones.

Ella had arrived two weeks early, small even for a ‘premmy’. Her tiny frame was shockingly delicate but her silence was the danger sign. She had not cried. Her eyes never opened except when her eyelids were pried apart by the gloved hand of a doctor. Occasionally her mouth would open, just a touch, then drop shut again as if this almost imperceptible movement had sapped her strength.

Why? Grace whispered. Peter knew that the plea was not to Ella. Nor was it to Peter, who had interrogated every doctor he could find, searched every page on the internet and the darknet, phoned every medical institution who would take his call, and found nothing. Nor was her plea even to God, whom she had believed in once.

She was asking the question of herself. Blaming herself. If the child had a disease, they could blame fate or bad luck. But the child was not sick nor injured. Ella was simply unable to live, as if half-born. For Grace, every question had an answer. Every mystery had a solution. If her daughter’s death was not the fault of the doctors, or of Peter, or of God, then that only left one option. Peter could only say that it wasn’t her fault so many times.

The doctors did not blame her. How could they, when they had no idea of the cause. They said nothing at all but used lots of words to do so.

Peter knew that he was not sad enough.

He understood the requirements of the moment. Grace was carrying out her role. She had not slept since Ella was born. She had cried for so long and so hard that her muscles cramped and the skin around her eyes was scraped red. She had barely eaten.

Peter had not cried. He remembered the last time he cried and it was a long time ago. A very long time.

Because he did not cry, Grace was angry at him and cried even more. He wanted desperately for Ella to live but other thoughts prodded at his mind.

You’ve only known her for two days.

She doesn’t even know you exist.

She’s never even been conscious. What does it matter to her if she dies, when she never even knew that she lived?

Grace did not leave Ella’s bedside, sleeping with her head on the cot, her finger wrapped in the baby’s tiny fingers.

Peter went back to the apartment, ostensibly to get a change of clothes for Grace as the vigil wore on. He lay down on the couch and the next thing he knew, he woke refreshed, six hours later. He did not have a mobile phone, so he did not feel Grace’s wrath until he returned to the hospital. "How could you possibly sleep?" she hissed. He was grateful that Ella had not died because that would have made it even worse - and he knew what a terrible thought that was but thought it none-the-less.

Do you even care about her? she asked on another occasion, more exhausted than angry.

Yes, he replied, and said nothing more. He knew this was not the right answer. I love her, he eventually said. Truthfully. Maybe.

It felt like the end was near. Neither Peter nor Grace believed in miracles and there was no reason to expect one now. Ella’s short life - all of two days - would be shortly forgotten by everyone but her parents. Peter would go on, as he always had done. Grace would be ruined.

A nurse appeared. She looked at the dying child and said something. Peter did not really listen and was surprised to find himself responding, as if on autopilot. Then the nurse was gone. They were alone again.

Hours passed. Nurses and doctors came and went. Peter went to the toilet once. He tried to encourage Grace to eat but she shook her head absently, never taking her eyes from her daughter. She turned suddenly to Peter. Her eyes were wild, a little unhinged. Did you get lunch?

He shook his head slowly. It’s two in the morning, he replied.

She blinked as if surprised, then turned back to Ella.

Another hour passed.

The child was perfectly motionless. My baby, Grace whispered. My beautiful, tiny, sick baby. Peter sat beside her, his hand around her waist. Waiting. She’s not sick. She’s just dying.

More time passed. Morning was detectable by dull fluorescent lights becoming suddenly brighter and a stream of tired nurses being replaced by slightly less tired ones. The staff left them alone, knowing there was nothing more that could be said or done, probably anxious to use the cot for a child who could be saved.

He was surprised when a young nurse forced her way into his field of vision. I’m sorry to interrupt, she said. Mr George?

Yes?

There are some people here to see you.

Grace’s family?

No, they… they say they know you. The nurse fidgeted. They say they have something important to talk to you about and that… and that it’s about Ella.

Are they doctors?

The nurse shook her head. I don’t think so. They are… they’re a bit strange.

Grace turned slowly towards the conversation as if only now becoming aware that it was occurring. Peter, just go and get rid of them, she said.

He nodded and turned back to the nurse. Okay, where are they?

He stood to follow her when Grace pulled him back by the wrist. Peter, she whispered. Please don’t be long. I need you. She looked away for a moment, then back to him. Ella needs you.

He kissed her on the forehead. I’ll be as quick as I can. I love you.

I love you too.

He kissed Ella on the forehead too, his lips covering it and encroaching on her closed eyes.

I’ll be back soon.

He followed the nurse.

She led him into a small office. I’ll leave you now, she said, exiting as if he and the strangers were radioactive.

When he turned to face them, he felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. It was an immediate, instinctual response. He did not know why it had occurred. His guts roiled so violently that he gripped the nearest wall, worried that he was going to keel over.

Yet he had no idea who they were. They were not pointing a weapon at him. They were not doing anything except looking back at him. Their gaze was expectant, as if they were waiting for a reaction. When he said nothing, they looked at each other and then back to him.

They were, as the nurse had foreshadowed, a bit strange. A man and a woman, around twenty-five or thereabouts. They could only be twins - at first glance, they looked about as identical as a male and female could look. Pale skin, blue eyes and white hair. They had high, pronounced cheekbones, narrow eyes and thin, pale lips.

It was only on closer inspection that differences between them appeared. The woman was tall - at least five-ten - but the man was an inch taller. The woman had three small moles on one cheek, while the man had a scar running from his chin down to his neck - pale and thin, but visible. Their expressions were both hard but the woman was more engaging. The man was looking straight at Peter but seemed distant, as if he had already played out this moment in his mind and had mentally moved on to something else.

They were strong but wiry, in appearance and attitude, as if wound up and ready to strike.

The man took a step towards Peter. My name is Luka, he said, offering his hand. His voice was as androgynous as his appearance, bereft of accent. After a moment of hesitation, Peter shook the outstretched hand. This is Mara.

Mara nodded but said nothing. She had blonde, shoulder-length hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail. Luka’s hair was a buzz cut. There was something familiar about the pair, and the names, and it was this familiarity that was causing the sick feeling in his guts.

You obviously know who I am, he said. Peter George.

Luka and Mara glanced at each other again. Luka turned back to Peter and his expression was severe, as if displeased. Please, he said. Don’t waste time. Your baby doesn’t have it.

Peter shook his head slowly. Look, he said. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but my baby needs a miracle. So unless you’ve come prepared with one, I don’t have time for this. My baby is dying and I need to be there with her mother.

The woman frowned. Although she did not avert her gaze from Peter, she said to her brother, He doesn’t remember us.

Luka nodded. It was a long time ago.

How do I know you?

Instead of answering, Luka said, How old are you?

I’m thirty-five.

Luka shook his head. No.

No?

No, you are not. You know that you are not.

Peter held up his hands. Okay, I’ve had enough. I’m getting back to my daughter. If you try to contact me again, I’ll have security escort you out.

He moved to leave when the woman spoke. The boat, she said, as if it were a full sentence.

He stopped.

He turned back to the twins. Luka. Mara. You were…

We were what?

The feeling in his stomach spread to the rest of his body as memories, carefully hidden, exploded back into his consciousness as if it were happening then and there, in the hospital, rather than decades ago. He felt himself fading as reality and memory merged. Gunther was your father, he managed to say, although the voice did not feel like his own.

Yes, Mara replied.

Peter leaned against the door. He heard waves breaking and felt a cool sea breeze on his face and neck. No, he muttered to himself. He took a step towards the twins, staring at them. But… but you look mid-twenties. No older than thirty. That was…

Luka interrupted. And you look thirty-five.

Mara nodded slowly. It was forty-seven years ago. And your name wasn’t Peter George. Your name was…

He finished for her. Triton. My name was Triton.

Does she know?

No, he replied, too quickly. No, Grace doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know...

That you’re a sixty-three year old man who never got old.

And you… Peter couldn’t help staring. You should be in your fifties.

"We are in our fifties, Luka replied, as if suddenly irritated. We’re not time travellers and nor are you."

Mara frowned at her brother, then turned back to Peter. We have a lot to discuss, she said. But first, we need to help your child.

Help? You can really help her?

We think so, but only temporarily, Mara replied. But long enough, I hope.

No false hope, he said. Not to me. Definitely not to Grace.

We can’t promise anything. But we need to go to her now. I know she doesn’t have much time.

What are you going to do to her?

Mara took a small beaker from her pocket. It contained a clear liquid. We are going to give her Water.

But Peter was gone. The walls collapsed as memories crashed into his consciousness like a sledgehammer, eviscerating the defences he had so carefully constructed for the better part of five decades. Although his body dropped to the floor, too fast for the twins to catch him, he was not aware of it. He was a hundred kilometres and fifty years away. He was in Euboea, and his name was Triton.

Two

Fifty years earlier

Triton.

He woke quickly. He had learned to wake quickly.

Mother?

"Triton. I know."

She drew the word out and winked. Her face was nearly touching his. Her breath was foul.

She had entered his bedroom while he slept, which she did often. Sometimes he would wake to find her standing in the corner, watching him, a tiny smile on her face. Other times, he would wake in her arms as she was pulling him from bed, hugging him fiercely.

On this occasion, she was holding one of his hands in hers. The other caressed his hair. Her eyes were open just a little too wide, hardly blinking. She must have taken Water this morning. He had no idea what the time was - they had no clocks or calendars in Euboea. The sun was pressing against the shades over his window, but it felt early.

Know what? He assumed he hadn’t done anything wrong - Mother was not subtle with punishments. Had he done something nice for her? It was possible - the Water left him with frequent blank spots in his memory.

"I know, she repeated, tightening her grip on his hand. I know that you’re becoming a man."

He stared at her. I’m only twelve.

She leaned closer to him and, despite there being no-one else in the room, whispered directly into his ear. I saw the stains.

His body shrivelled - contracted into itself, tried to compress itself out of existence. He began to dry retch, quickly disguising it as a coughing fit. Mother held him tighter still. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Triton. It’s something to be embraced. This is a good day."

He shook his head. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The truth was, he didn’t. He had awoken from a dream the previous week, dirty and wet. He knew what it was, of course. The Children spoke regularly of sex and masturbation and, of course, wet dreams. But she couldn’t possibly have known it had happened. By sheer luck, it had happened the night before it was his turn to wash everyone’s sheets.

Unless of course she was there when it happened. He shrivelled further.

More likely, he had said something about it after they had given him Water and then forgotten about it.

Or she didn’t really know and was just accusing him, waiting to gauge his reaction.

Of course you know, she cooed.

Then, so suddenly that it caused him to jump, she stopped caressing his head and leapt to her feet. Despite being overweight, she was always remarkably spritely. She did not release his hand and soon he had been dragged to his feet. Mother, I don’t…

Quiet! she snapped. This is a big day, she said, the smile returning as quickly as it had vanished. This is the day you really become one of the Children.

He allowed himself to be dragged through the house. No-one else seemed to be awake yet. When he had snuck off to bed, they had all still been drinking and taking Water and fucking each other. They would probably sleep most of the morning.

Not Mother, though. She probably hadn’t gone to bed.

They emerged into daylight and it was already hot. Triton had slept in a pair of old shorts and a t-shirt. Mother wore the same nightie she always wore to bed and often during the day - pink, lacy, a size too small and covered in cats. Triton had never seen a cat in real life but, if her nightie was accurate, they enjoyed playing with balls of wool and drinking milk.

What are we doing? he asked. He normally wore thongs around Euboea but he hadn’t had time to get them. Burrs gouged into his feet and toes.

Father and I have spoken about this day for a long time, Mother replied, dragging him past the shed towards the ocean. It was a calm morning - no hint of breeze and no waves to speak of. We wanted to make it special for you.

He tried to pull away but her grip was like iron. What day, Mother? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

She didn’t reply until they made it to the water’s edge. She sat heavily and suddenly, nearly yanking him off his feet. He caught himself on the way down and sat beside her, as far from her as he could manage. They were on wet sand and already the water was lapping against his shorts and her nightie, soaking them.

She turned to face him. I know, Triton, that you want to join with us. I see how you watch us.

Join with you?

She slapped him. When he turned back to her, she was scowling. Sorry, Mother, he stammered. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Her scowl snapped back to a smile, as quickly as the slap had exploded from her. Fucking, Triton. I’m talking about fucking. We’ve held you back until you’re ready. Father didn’t want to, of course. Nor did the others. They all wanted to get their greedy paws on you. But I insisted. I was very firm with them. Even with Father, and you know how he can be.

He knew very well.

But I knew those juices would start flowing through you sooner or later. She ran a hand across his cheek. We just had to give you time. We’ve discussed how to mark this occasion. It’s important. It has to be done right. You’re the first.

The first what?

The first of the Children to be untouched. We will offer your purity to Poseidon…

He recoiled.

She laughed. It was a distant laugh, as if her body found something funny whilst her mind had wandered elsewhere. No, silly, not your father. He’s just the conduit. He shares the soul of Poseidon just like I share the soul of Amphitrite and you share the soul of Triton. We are but the tiniest fragment of the gods. The gods live there - She pointed out to sea. We have been blessed to be touched by them, and honoured to use their names.

He had heard the speech a thousand times before. I know, Mother.

"I’m talking about the real Poseidon. There, under the sea."

Triton stared. You’re going to drown me?

The sound that came from her was as if an extended laugh was concentrated into a single, harsh cackle. No, no. She continued to grip his hand tightly. The other hand was now absently stroking his leg. You’re going to give your seed to Him.

For several seconds, he had no idea what she was talking about. It wasn’t unusual, when under the influence of Water, for her to say things that made no sense to anyone except herself. Most of the time, at least a few of her sycophantic followers would nod appreciatively as if her words contained wisdom when, in fact, they were drug-addled nonsense. He thought for some time that this was one such occasion and, rather than worry about what it meant, focussed on how to get away.

Then it dawned on him. My… seed? he echoed. You mean…

Don’t be a prude, Triton. You know that’s not the way of the Children. Become a man. Give your seed to the ocean. To Poseidon. Then you’ll truly be one of us.

He shook his head slowly. You want me to… with you here?

She slapped him playfully on the bare leg. Of course with me here, you silly boy! That’s the whole point! I brought you into this world. You came out of me as a child. Now I’ll help you become a man!

He kept shaking his head. I… I can’t.

She smiled and reached behind her back. She always kept a flask of Water on her back, the old leather strap around her neck mostly hidden by her giant hair. I know you’re going to be nervous, Triton. This will help you.

Mother opened the flask and held it towards him. It’s a very special batch, Triton. I made it especially for you.

He did not try to fight her. Taking the Water was not negotiable. Not ever.

Besides, despite everything, he yearned for it.

He drank.

All of it, now, Mother cooed.

He finished the flask.

Mother waited. He stared out at the ocean, trying to think of a way out of this before the Water clouded his mind. But he didn’t think for long. Nothing he had ever tried before had worked. Even if he could physically escape from her, which was unlikely - the woman was heavy and strong - he couldn’t really escape.

They always caught him because he had nowhere else to go. He didn’t know if there was anywhere else to go. His entire life, as best he could remember, extended no further south than the Lancelin town centre and no further west than Lancelin Island. North and east were completely unknown.

He realised he had been staring at the water lapping against his feet. It was intensely fascinating.

The Water was working.

Take off your pants, Mother said.

He could think of no option but to obey.

She cackled. Still a lot of growing to be done, my boy!

Her voice sounded distant now. The waves on the other hand, tiny as they were, filled his ears as if they were all around him. The slurp of the tide as it receded, the smash of the wave as it lifted and fell. His skin felt red hot and he was stunned to see that, when the water touched him, it didn’t turn to steam.

Touch yourself, Triton. Do it.

He wasn’t sure if he was doing it or not. He had become distracted by a cloud, shaped precisely like Mother herself. Yet he was also aware that he was touching himself.

Or was he?

Was it Mother touching him?

He blinked and turned his head slowly down from the cloud.

No, it was him doing it. That relaxed him.

He touched himself and it felt good. He forgot that Mother was there. She still held his left hand but it felt distant. He laid back on the sand and was shocked to feel that it was wet. He had forgotten about the water, too. He thought of nothing but the warm feeling that rolled through him.

Time seemed to pass. He didn’t know how long.

When he looked back down, he was surprised to see that he was still on the beach as if no time had passed at all.

His penis was hard now. He didn’t remember that happening.

He gasped and let go of it.

Keep going, darling.

Triton jumped violently.

Why was she there? Why was he… touching himself… while she was there?

It feels good, doesn’t it? she said. Her voice seemed to merge with the water, as if the waves themselves were speaking to him.

He felt bile rise in his throat.

Yet she was right. It did feel good.

He touched himself again. He was not hard any more.

Give Poseidon your seed, Triton. Become one of us.

The voice seemed simultaneously distant yet impossibly loud.

He continued to touch himself. It was as if every part of the universe had ceased to exist except for his own body. Sharp waves of something passed through him. Was it pain? Or pleasure? He wasn’t sure.

Your seed, Triton. Keep going!

His eyes were closed. When had that happened?

He opened them and was blinded by the sun. He grimaced and looked towards the sea.

And was shocked to see part of his own body pointing straight back at him. And he was rubbing it.

What the hell was going on?

He was suddenly and violently overcome with revulsion so intense and pure that vomit started to pour out of his mouth. Mother screamed. Triton coughed as the vomit passed back into his throat. He turned away from Mother and let it pour on to the sand beside him.

Even as he was coughing the last of the vomit away, he had forgotten why he had done it. What was so foul, so disgusting?

Triton! Mother was screaming. You’re ruining this for me, Triton! You’re ruining it for everyone!

Everyone? he managed to rasp. His throat burned. Ruining what?

He closed his eyes again. The world was spinning.

He was vaguely aware that he was touching himself again. The water crept beneath his bare legs and over his buttocks, chilling him. He ran his hands through the sand, leaving tiny indents that he could press his fingers into. He could feel each grain of sand, every one as individual and significant as every other.

He kept touching himself.

But both his hands were pressed into the sand.

Wasn’t Mother holding one of his hands?

He opened his eyes. Mother had his penis in her hand and she was pulling at it so violently that he thought she would surely rip it off. He could only see the side of her face but it was set in an intense frown. Sweat formed under her armpit and dripped down her cat-nightie while she continued working on him.

That seemed very strange, he thought, but not as strange as the millions of individual sand particles that were under and between his fingertips.

He felt that same sensation again. Pain? Pleasure?

Come on, Triton! Mother screamed.

The revulsion struck again, as if a tidal wave had crashed upon him. Yet as he vomited, he felt something else happening. Pain shooting through his groin and legs and abdomen. He bucked on the sand, certain he was being stabbed. It was the most intense pain he had experienced - so intense that he momentarily forgot about the hot vomit that was coursing down his chin and over his chest.

Was it pain? He thought so, but it felt different to pain.

What’s happening? he managed to gasp.

It seemed to go on forever.

When it was finally over, he opened his eyes and was shocked to see Mother leaning back, breathing heavily, as if her exertions had finished only seconds ago.

Now go! she screamed at him through ragged breaths. Give him your seed!

Triton pushed himself to his feet and staggered towards the water. Warm vomit mixed with another warm substance that was dripping down his stomach. He had no idea what was going on.

He collapsed into the water and let the coolness wash over him.

The next thing he knew, he was being dragged back up by Mother, whose body was hot and wet. She led him unsteadily towards Euboea, past the shed, towards the house.

Suddenly there were people everywhere, cheering him.

What for?

One man was not cheering. Triton knew him as Gunther, a newcomer. Gunther was frowning. His two twins, both blonde, only toddlers, held one each of their father’s hands. They were watching Triton, their expressions confused and sad.

Father appeared from the home. Tall and wiry, completely naked. He had an erection which pressed against Triton’s naked body as the man hugged him.

Welcome, boy, Father said. Welcome to the Children of the Sea.

Three

8 November

Grace’s world had reduced to a series of still images. The wrinkles on her daughter’s tiny elbow. The eyelashes of her right eye. The shape of her upper lip, which was Peter’s all over. The imperfection in the upper portion of her left ear, Grace’s gift to her daughter. The controlled chaos of the hospital continued outside, barely a metre from her, but she was as oblivious to it as Ella was.

With her free hand, Grace rolled a stone of black tourmaline between her fingers. Delivered at Grace’s request by her sister, she focused on drawing positive energy from it, through her and into her daughter.

It was ridiculous, she knew. But it couldn’t hurt. If it was just a stone, giving off no more energy than any normal rock, she lost nothing but another tiny part of her dignity. None of that mattered any more. If burning incense and ear candling were allowed in the hospital, she would have done that too.

When Peter swished aside the curtain, she felt his presence rather than saw it. To her, he was as ephemeral as the steady hum emitting from the air conditioner vents. She expected him to sit beside her quietly, as he had done so many times in the 48 hours since Ella was born, and to become a motionless, silent extension of her vigil.

When he said her name, it took Grace several seconds to register. By the time she had done so, there were two strangers beside him, staring at her baby. She felt violated and would have screamed at Peter except that she was too groggy and confused to say or do anything at all. She wondered whether she had been asleep, eyes open. Or whether she was still asleep.

Grace?

She nodded unsteadily and mumbled, Who are these people?

Peter knelt beside her. She suddenly noticed, for the first time since this nightmare had begun, how terrible he looked. His eyes, normally brown and clear and crackling with a quiet intelligence, were bloodshot and too wide. His olive-brown skin was pale and slick with oil. His three-day stubble was black and thick - he normally shaved every day, even on weekends.

Grace, he whispered. She glared with open animosity at the strange, European-looking twins that were staring at her dying child. Reluctant to turn away for even a moment, she finally made eye contact with Peter.

What’s going on?

Peter’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. He frowned, as if carefully framing the words before releasing them. Finally: Grace, I have something to tell you about my past that is going to be… confusing.

You can tell me anything, she said, her eyes darting to the twins.

Peter closed his eyes briefly and sighed. "I’ll tell you soon. I’ll tell you everything. I promise. But right now, these people may have something that can help Ella. But Ella doesn’t have time to let me explain