A Recipe for Escaping the God of the Cove

R

ecipe 1.

Obtain leeches.

Collect 1L of blood.

Pour them into the ocean on the next new moon.

When your next bottle dawdles into the cove through the fog, I smash it on our favourite rock. Why in the name of the Cove did you use blue glass? You’ve always loved blue, but with your extended collection you could’ve at least chosen something that would stand out from the waves. I nearly missed it, bobbing on the sea in the full moon’s light as I made my nightly trudge down the grey pebble beach.

And then what would you do? Let the God steal your earthly soul forever?

It’s a good thing I upgraded my eye. That’s all I’ll say.

Back to the smashing. The glass is brittle and a knife-long shard slices my meaty human thigh open. My blood splatters the stones on the beach, a dark wash on the rain-soaked grit.

I swear.

“Happy?” I shout at the God of the Cove. My right hand whirring, I tear a strip off my (favourite) nightgown to bandage the wound. The effectiveness is suspect: my only first aid training comes from extensive amounts of k-dramas. But it’s better than nothing.

Beneath me, the blood sinks into the sand; the beach pulses. The God of the Cove drinks.

“Yeah,” I grumble. I shake the mess of broken glass off your letter in the brisk east coast wind, then fold it into my pocket. “That’s what I thought.”

I head back to our cottage, where the fire’d better still be roaring.

Recipe 27

Walk the beach on a moonless night.

Find the stone that shines like starlight.

Swallow it, and do not retch.

When we first found my cottage online, I’d been threatening to move us—you, me, and our scraggly calico Butterscotch—out into some foggy, atmospheric slice of country for years. You said, like you were winning, that there was nowhere in the country where I’d have the resources to do my work. Then this place showed up, on its own rocky island just inside a Newfoundland inlet. Fully decked out: a lab in the back! An industrial-level generator! And the turret, overlooking the water.

You always wanted a turret.

Mostly, I think about your doubt. The way “no” looked on your lips. Your stubborn hang-up on having to deal with a septic tank. Your potentially reasonable but very dramatic protests that we’d never see our friends again. The way you wrinkled your nose and told me “it just give a bad vibe, okay?”

Sometimes, I almost think you might’ve had some points. But..is it self-centred to still think it was a good idea?

I have gotten a lot of work done.

Recipe 50.

Finally take those ripe bananas out of the freezer.

Make the fucking banana bread.

(Put one out on our favourite rock, so the God can have a piece.)

The door slams behind me. Tonight, the God has blessed me, and the fire still roars—I’ve truly had it with the drafts that keep blowing it out.

The God of the Cove has its little jokes.

I snap my mechanical hand, and my proprietary lighting system ignites, buzzing energy into the room. It’s an uncanny kind of glow, an artificial break against the warm fireplace light. I sit on our beat-up corduroy couch and place your letter on the coffee table. Butterscotch, our fourteen-year-old calico, hops up beside it, nosing it until it nearly falls off the table’s edge.

It’s been a while, since your last one. I wonder what the God is making you do, to earn our freedom. I wonder if it’s worse than the recipes you’ve been sending. I wonder if you’re as moist as I am.

I unfurl the page. My stomach drops.

I wonder what the God is making you do, to earn our freedom. I wonder if it’s worse than the recipes you’ve been sending. I wonder if you’re as moist as I am.

No. No, absolutely not.

I don’t care what the God said. I don’t care if it means I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life. I don’t care if it keeps my skeleton animated for a millennia to keep it company beneath the crushing depths.

I will not give it my cat.

Recipe 64.

Take the whiskered creature that whines for fish.

Throw it, whole, from the cottage turret.

You were so pale, when I last saw you. Standing in our living room dripping wet, in front of the embers of a fire I’d burned through. You’d gone fishing (despite not knowing how to fish) and gotten lost in the cove’s eerie fog, rowing yourself right into a cave I’ve never found since. You told me the God of the Cove appeared to you, a vision of waves woven with unearthly blue light. It told you it had grown accustomed to our company (the fucker had been having fun with us—lights flickering, streamed shows changing seasons mid-episode, aforementioned fires going out, and dampening literally everything) but could be persuaded to let us leave if we volunteered our time to help it.

Apparently, the inlet was cursed. Had been cursed. Finally made the price of the place make sense, honestly. But, lo! There was a set of recipes to break it, and they’d give you one recipe for each favour you did for them in the cosmic stretch of the multiverse.

Sounded simple enough. Neither of us were particularly upset at the idea of never seeing your parents again (hard to get shamed for missing Christmas if a malevolent God’s taken you hostage), but we did have flights to Venice next summer, and we really did want to see it before they had to float it up again in five years.

So off you went into the planes of the Gods, in that little half-rotted rowboat that shouldn’t have been able to float.

And I’ve collected your recipes ever since.

Recipe 10

Catch a lizard.

Slit its throat.

Leave it at the foot of the cliff on the up-turned rock.

(Make sure it is the right lizard.)

Nowhere feels safe safe enough for Butterscotch, so I get his old carrying backpack. He chirps warily as I unzip it, and it takes fifteen treats (and various cooing sounds, accompanied by the soothing cat music I’ve pre-loaded into my system) to convince him into it. Finally, I lug the thing onto my back.

The fire blows out. Smoke fills the room. Now I am moist and coughing.

“Very funny!” I shout, and my lights fizzle, too. I stand in the dark, heart rate 131bpm. That feature seemed useful when I first implemented it, but these days it makes it hard to lie to myself.

In the case, Butterscotch bumps against my back. Once. Twice. Three times. And then lies down. At least one of us is comfortable.

In pitch dark, I stumble towards the wall of the cottage. I’ve been here long enough that it’s second nature, but I’m clumsy enough in full light, so I still knock into the couch—

“Shit—“

With my wounded leg.

Swearing the whole way, my hands finally circle the doorknob.

Recipe 18.

Stride, fully nude, into the ocean during rainfall.

Listen to the way the waves hit the cliff.

Find the song that sits in your stomach.

Vomit it up, until you no longer remember your name.

At first, I thought this place might save our marriage. You’d been wanting more us time, and what could accomplish that better than an extremely private, very isolated, middle-of-nowhere abode?

And there were so many perks.

“I won’t have to commute,” I pointed out over our daily bowl of cereal.

“You’ll have a whole glass blowing room,” I called across our living room, to where you were crammed into your tiny desk. “I’ll build it for you.”

“We can tell her you won’t have cell service,” I reassured you, rubbing your back after your latest blow out with your sister.

Eventually, you said yes. I’ll never forget that day, how you strode into my lab with a tight, haunted look behind your eyes. Your jaw locked, your arms crossed. Always reluctant. Always judgemental. But finally amenable.

Which was great, because I’d already bought it.

Recipe 33

Eat the stale cereal for breakfast.

Without milk.

Every day.

Until the God tells you to stop.

The turret, despite being built into the cottage, can only be accessed from outside. So outside we go, Butterscotch and me, and of course it’s raining. Pouring. A post-collapse deluge. I tread carefully—I’ve wiped out on this beach before, and there’s nothing like pulling tiny stones out of your flesh arm to make you walk more slowly in the future.

By the time I’ve walked the twenty steps it takes to get to the turret, I’m soaked. Inside the cat carrier, there’s a sound of pat-pat-pat, and I’m pretty sure Butterscotch is pawing at the rain.

It would be cute, if we were in any other situation.

The door is jammed, but old. I throw my metal side against it and the worst of the wood breaks. I love that side. It makes me feel so powerful.

I stride into the turret with purpose, shaking my short wet hair like a dog. But—

Oh, God.

Oh, fucking God of the Cove.

What is that stench.

Recipe 17.

Go to the highest cliff on the island.

Find the softest earth beneath bare feet.

Dig, and dig, and dig, and dig.

Cover yourself in dirt until the strength is gone from your limbs.

Honestly, we had a great time moving in. We’d spent all those months thrifting, picking up weird containers of various sizes and purposes (jugs, bottles, vases…) that you seemed to need despite the fact that I couldn’t tell the difference between them. We installed a full playground wonderland for Butterscotch (and you were right, she still uses all the wall platforms! It was worth the broken thumb!). We planted that beautiful garden, and learned how to use the well, and painted and built furniture and stayed up late on our deck…

It was all fine, until that first time we tried to leave. And the second. And the third. Weird, at first, that a storm blew in, or fog came tumbling over, or, finally, that the two motorboats we’d bought sunk just off our island. Strange, that whenever one of our phone calls turned to asking for help, the call dropped—or messages went undelivered, or edited.

I do understand why you jumped at the chance to break the curse.

Just, when I’m alone here sometimes, I wish we could have tried to be happy with what we had.

Recipe 60

Sit at the top of the cliff at sunrise.

Speak your warmest memories into the fog.

Let the God lap at them until they’ve had their fill.

I’m not stupid. I know why it stinks. I went to med school, for Gods’ sakes. I feel that horrible sinking feeling over my whole body.

But I climb the spiral staircase anyway.

Butterscotch is shockingly unperturbed. I guess that makes sense, though—cats have been known to eat their owners, haven’t they? Some people find that horrifying. I’ve always thought it was practical.

Near the top of the stairs, the stench is almost unbearable. For the second time tonight, I pull a stretch of fabric off my clothes. This time, I push it over my nose and mouth. I pause. BPM 142pm. I stand near the top of those stairs, fleshy hand white with tension as it grips the railing, until I hear Butterscotch snore.

Shit.

I take the last few steps, and there you are. You look…awful. Fallen to the side, bloated, eyes wide open. You’re so pale. You’re so…

Dead.

You’re in better shape than I expect, from how long it’s been since you left, but I imagine the God wanted me to recognize you. I can’t, for the life of me, decide if that’s a kind or cruel gesture. Maybe, chaotic neutral.

I sit down at the top of the stairs. I vomit all over them.

Was it ever you, sending the recipes? Hours pass, and I lie on the floor next to you, fabric pressed tight over my puke-stained lips. Did you ever even go out in that rowboat? Was it even you the day you told me you were leaving? Or was it the God, twirling me between their fingers this whole time?

I’ve done a lot of weird shit, these last couple months. That doesn’t seem much weirder.

A few steps down, Butterscotch mewls. He’s right. It’s probably food time.

Was it even you the day you told me you were leaving? Or was it the God, twirling me between their fingers this whole time?

I look at the window. I look at your corpse.

I miss you with my whole heart.

But you never shaved that damned beard, and you always wanted sushi, so—

I stumble to the window. Unlock it. Salt air and rain bombard me—bombard us, because I’m lifting you up with both arms, wounded leg shaking—

I do think you’d want it this way.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. I pat your hair awkwardly, some horrible mime of what I’ve done the last ten years. “Butterscotch needs you, it’s okay.”

And hoist you out the turret.

You fall. Hit the water.

Far below, something dark and shapeless moves.

You disappear.

Recipe 65 shows up in a red bottle. It’s nice. I put it on my window sill, next to the yellow one you loved. The fire roars.

Who said you can’t barter with a God?

After all: I got this place for a bargain.