Commandment by Daryl Chestney

Our apartment was but one of countless others that overlooked the Dank Well. From the kitchen window, there was a crammed view of the boulder-strewn beach below. My mother was a simple woman, sweet and attentive to our needs. In the stormy autumn evenings, when the winds blew harshest, my father used to cull the beach. He lugged home many a flotsam and jetsam from ships broken under the sea’s fists. In fact, that single pursuit seemed to be his only real interest in life. He was by most accounts a first-rate roué, a cruel man who oft levied a heavy hand against my mom. While he was out drinking, she was at home nursing a daughter. When he came home late all stinky and cranky, she obediently rubbed his feet. Yes, she served him faithfully. In addition, she was a generation his junior, and I sometimes wondered what quirks of fortune had tied the knot of their destinies together.
    “A week ago, I discovered the shocking truth. Unable to sleep, I emerged from my room, attracted by voices in the dining hall below. My father was with one of his cronies. It was late, and both, sodden with drink, were sitting around the hearth and reliving their glory years. To my surprise, the subject of my mother came up. I listened in pensive silence from the head of the stairs.
    “His lips lubricated with booze, my father began bragging that my mother was the most useful treasure he had saved from the sea. His compatriot begged him to elaborate. To indulge his curiosity, my father began a meandering tale. To my horror, what unfolded was no tale of true love overcoming all obstacles. The sordid truth was far more damning.
    “It began many years ago. At that time my father was a bachelor, having been singularly unsuccessful in affairs of the heart. One day, while strolling down a stretch of desolate beach, he came across a tide pool. A dulcet voice rang out from the foam. From behind a rock formation, he eagerly peeked out. There, swimming amid the churning surf, was a fair maiden. He recognized her as the daughter of a local family who lived farther down the beach. Their paths had crossed from time to time. But now, seeing her lithe, supple form bobbing in the waters, his appreciation ran in an entirely different light. After absorbing an eyeful, he skulked away.
    “Thereafter, he made it a habit of roaming the same stretch of beach at the same hour, hoping to spy on the nymph as she wiggled among the waves. Often, he was rewarded for his pains when he caught a glimpse of supple flesh. Other times he lumbered home heavyhearted, his voyeuristic impulses denied.
    “In time, his needs grew far beyond merely ogling the maid from afar. She had become an obsession, such that the entire value of a day was centered on the prospect of seeing her. If successful, he swooned with adolescent excitement. If not, he wallowed in despair.
    “He knew, of course, that he could never have her hand in marriage. The summer of his life was setting, while she was blossoming with a vernal bloom.
    “But it was more than the steep age difference that split the bedrock of their destinies. This would have been overlooked if he had been a man of means. As it stood, his loftiest ambition was scouring the beach for discarded trinkets. In addition, he had a reputation as a stiff-necked pervert whose eye roamed all too comfortably toward the youngest maids in the vicinity. No, he knew he had no hope of stealing her hand by the customary channels.
    “For weeks on end he fretted over the unobtainable prize, ignoring all other facets of his wretched life. Finally, stricken with desperation, he resorted to seeking the advice of a local beldam of unsavory aspect. Many averred her to be a witch. The hag lived in an old lighthouse on a cape overlooking the Dank Well.
    “When she opened the door to greet him, my father was immediately convinced that the stories about her rang true. Animal hides dried over a bubbling cauldron, and a half-blind black cat hissed from under a