Chapter 516

The bells of San Giorgio Maggiore sounded as a rusty barge floated down the polluted waters. Marco, a skinny kid of twelve, stood on a broken-down pier near the cemetery island, his tattered pants hanging by threads. He chewed on a piece of stale bread, watching.

He was no stranger to these canals, no stranger to this smell of decay. This was his world, but not for long. Not if those things in the water had their way. Marco pointed to the water, a twisted grimace forming.

"They don't belong," he said, his speech impeded by the way his mind worked, always running faster than his tongue. He knew something wasn't right, no matter what anyone else said. "They'll hurt us, Nonna."

Nonna, her face a roadmap of time spent under a hard sun, dismissed him with a shake of her head. She offered him another piece of hard bread and shooed him off, her attention on fixing her torn net. "You get into trouble. Always in trouble, you."

Marco's face burned with a hot sense of injustice. "But, Nonna—" She lifted a finger, her warning.

Life for Marco was a series of confused moments and frantic gestures, his world seen through the eyes of someone on the fringes, someone no one ever listened to. Everyone else saw the water in a regular way, they didn't see how Marco did.

His older sister, Rosa, often the buffer between Marco and their fed-up grandmother, caught him later near Rialto, near where all the shops were located, watching people get about their day. She tugged on his sleeve, pulling him toward their small house, away from everything.

"Leave it, Marco. Nobody listens." She spoke softly, but there was an exhaustion in her words that even he caught. She looked around, hoping that people hadn't seen or heard her brother being out of sorts.

"They live in there. I see them," Marco insisted, kicking at a loose cobblestone. "Bad. Ugly."

"Hush, Marco. Let's get home." She ushered him inside, away from the prying eyes of the neighborhood. Away from the old women with their rosary beads and quick judgments. The women watched, whispering, like they did every day.

Marco didn't sleep much anymore. He lay on his small mattress, his mind alive. He imagined all kinds of ways to show the others what lived underneath them, just outside of their little homes.

His sister rolled over in her sleep, her breath a slight whistling. Even she was tired now. Tired of his warnings. It would not get better for Marco; this much was obvious. She could do nothing for her brother.

But, Marco had a plan. A clumsy one, sure, but a plan nonetheless. If they wouldn't listen, he'd have to show them. They could not ignore a monster pulled from the deep, after all. They'd have to face it, the way Marco had done many nights.

He collected parts—scraps of metal, discarded wire, and an old car battery he found behind a mechanic's shop. His fingers, clumsy but sure, put it together in a makeshift tool meant to drag the things up, to make people see.

The first attempt, under the cloak of night, ended as most things did for Marco. In disaster, and him getting scolded by his sister, after some fisherman found him and took him home. Rosa could only sigh; the way her brother saw the world, was no fault of his own.

Nonna yelled until her face was red, waving a wooden spoon like a weapon. Rosa looked on, the tiredness deepening around her eyes, but said nothing as Nonna carried on for many minutes, it seemed to Marco. He retreated, like he always did, into himself, his brain working hard.

Weeks passed and Marco became more withdrawn. He watched the waters, the same dark thoughts in his mind. He talked less and observed more, plotting, working out something that they'd have to see.

"Marco, eat," Rosa pleaded, pushing a plate of bland pasta toward him. He pushed it back. She watched him do it and could say nothing in reply. Their Nonna did enough shouting for the entire household, that much was clear.

"Not hungry," he mumbled. It would not get easier for Marco, and each passing day confirmed that fact in some form or another. He would forever see the world differently than other people, but the fact people dismissed it as an issue, is what irritated Marco more.

Marco stole a small boat, an old one nobody wanted, tied up to a post at the end of the island, far from where the tourists roamed. His makeshift invention sat heavily on the worn wooden seat. He would show them.

The water was black under the weak moonlight. The smell of rot was strong, his boat small and fragile in this big place. His machine sat, ready to work. He was close, now. So close to making his sister and Nonna proud of him.

He dropped the machine, the wires twisting as they hit the bottom. Now, all he had to do was pull something up, but nothing was taking the bait. Nothing was going according to Marco's plan, just like before.

But then a hard pull, nearly knocking him off his feet. His invention worked. Something large was moving underneath the water. Adrenaline pumped into his limbs, into his arms, as he held the line.

Marco felt strong, important, and in this moment, nothing could ever change that fact. For once in his short life, someone was listening. He pulled, hoping that someone would walk over the bridge and help him.

But as he strained, a glimpse of something broke the surface. It was too dark to see clearly, but what it was, even Marco knew wasn't right. What was this strange shape that had appeared, it did not appear right to Marco's mind.

His blood turned cold. Not one of the usual water-dwelling creatures. This was large, many limbs with a single eye and spikes. This is what Marco was warning the other people in the area about. This is the strange object Marco knew of.

"Rosa! Nonna!" His cries pierced the quiet. His voice carried down the alley, his words sharp, but nobody came, despite all of the shouting that Marco had done. "Help me! Look! I told you!" He yelled.

The thing emerged more, pulling on his line, making noises no creature should ever make. His simple mind grasped one truth very quickly: this thing was angry, and it did not want to be seen. This creature appeared to want to do some sort of harm.

The struggle lasted only moments. The creature, far bigger than him, yanked the device from his hands. He fell back, his head hitting the side of the boat, his vision clouded, but only for a moment.

It dragged him into the black waters, his screams fading quickly, bubbles and foam his only markers. Marco felt cold like he never felt before. He thought that he had helped save the people around him, not endanger them.

Rosa woke up in a panic, something pulling her from sleep, sweat making her nightgown cling. A nightmare, she was sure. Something about Marco. Something very scary.

She moved to his small bed, seeing it empty. Fear made her heart pump faster. It made her limbs move quicker. "Marco?" she called into the dark. Rosa knew that he had not been around her, in this moment.

Nonna grumbled from her room, awakened by Rosa's panicked voice. She lit a small candle, throwing a weak light on the walls of their tiny house. The room appeared the same way it usually did to Nonna's eyes.

Rosa didn't explain; she couldn't. She rushed out, running into the cold, her feet slipping on the wet stones. The people on the streets started at her. Nobody noticed her in the dim street, running towards where they held the boats.

She called his name, desperate now. "Marco! Marco!" Only the water responded, its blackness undisturbed by the sound. There is a bad feeling that takes place around Rosa at this time, something very strange.

"What is it, girl?" A fisherman, old and bent like the boats he kept, stepped out, smoking. He frowned at Rosa, but in his eyes, a rare gentleness appeared, as though he suddenly noticed her.

"My brother—have you seen him? Little. Confused," she begged, holding her hands in front of her. She stared at the man with desperate, wanting eyes. It would not help her situation, but she wanted assistance now.

The fisherman rubbed his chin, looking out at the water, then back at Rosa. He shook his head slowly. He pointed toward the church. He muttered something she could not hear properly, but understood. Marco could not hear them now.

Nonna came, her shawl wrapped around her, her face drawn and tight. She had yelled at Rosa many times to return to their home, with no luck. They stood together, the water indifferent to their pain, the fisherman gone to whatever business kept old men alive.

"We should search," Rosa said, but already, her voice was empty. She had a difficult time looking her Nonna in the eye, like she always did. It appeared to be too much to handle for Rosa in this moment.

Nonna touched her arm, a gesture of comfort, rare in their hard world. She spoke gently for once. "No, Rosa. He's gone." They never had many things to say, as per usual for them both.

The truth settled between them, a cold, heavy blanket of reality that only the water would care about. Their town was going to fall, no matter how loud Marco screamed. Marco will not be present anymore.

The next morning, life moved as it always had. The shop owners shouted their bargains to passersby, and Nonna sold her fish to those she had been selling to for years, even if there was no fish to see.

Only Rosa saw the ripples near the cemetery island. Only she remembered Marco's face, so serious, pointing into the deep. A shiver of what could only be understood as pure fear moved inside her.

But what could she do? A young woman in a world that barely listened to old men, let alone kids like Marco. Rosa did not see that much for herself; that was what had always happened for Rosa, though.

The waters of Venice stayed dark and full of secrets, the warnings of a child forgotten in the rush. What would the people think of her, should she go on and explain? They wouldn't listen, the same way they never did before.

And Marco? Lost to the deep, his truth buried under layers of indifference and disbelief, his sacrifice as unnoticed as his desperate pleas. Only he could see his fate and only he saw what would soon happen to all of them.