It must have been the tall boy, François, that made me do it. Perhaps too it was only because of that
insolent smile; the way bits of mustard or barley would stick about the corners
of his lips, the true reason for why I stood now, glancing out into the bay,
down upon the terror that oft visited us all.
For no other worries nor hatreds nor abdominal fears could have moved my
quavering heart to action.
I had debated about pulling either he or Tomas down to the shore to see me
off, yet knew that their cries or jeers might raise an alarm, or else weaken morn
resolve.
“You all know the true haunting of our town, the real reason we are all
hear. Sure, sure you do my lads,”
Francois was saying only just the week before, “but do you know why we put up
with it the way we do?” Everybody shook
their head in agreement, uncertainly pervading the air.
“Mightily,” Francois then continued, “comes the hungry mouth of the tide
into our little bay, snap snap snap, just to gobble you (and maybe your family)
up! And when your done flapping and
twisting in its maw, like a beaten fish, you go down into that tide mouth with
your back up and boots out, hands forever reaching up up for the sky you’ll
never see again, even as you pray the bottom.
Forever to lay, long to rest uneasily…until the other souls down there
come up to claim you. The sky gods, they
demand sacrifice if they are to sustain themselves, if the island out there is
to grow, to continue as it has” The boys
recoiled a bit as he leaned forward, gasping and tugging at themselves.
“But the prize, the island…the trinkets upon its shores I tell you lads,
it is worth the risk! The ladies there
offer free kisses to wary travelers, the monks give seemingly endless samples
of ale to ease the sweat from your brow!
All for a short walk – no matter, no worry.”
The island. The bay. Half of us stood transfixed, gazing down the
hill to where the waters edge grew bright, unearthly blue in the morning
sun. Yes, we all knew the stories…but
what of trinkets? Father had not
told. Could they help keep the need for sacrifice
at bay? I could see by a glance sideways
to Tomas, that he was thinking the same.
It was truly arresting. Beyond, a
mile (ten?) the island stood there, calling out more to each of us now in the
slanted air of sun. Even now as I
descended the ladder to the hardpack, keeping my eyes ever outward to the
island I could hear there words ring in my ears.
“Did you do it?” the shorter had one
asked, seeming bravest of us all. For we
had doubt cast over their brows, turning over the miles, the task, the
difficulties.
“What, simple little I?” Francois grinned,
a small glint in his eye. His hands had
slid behind his back as he talked, clicking something against his belt as he
tittered to and fro. We had all tried to
push him, persuade him then to show whatever treasure he chose to conceal.
“Why would I dare cross the tideflats during the lulls of the day? This is how you repay me? Oh how you bore me. And yet”
“This little trinket? Eh, it can be had for only a few Francs
anywhere in the lower town.” They had
marveled then, I feeling jelousy rise swiftly in my heart as he raised a hand. In his palm, a medallion glowed.
“Your lying!” Thomas had said, speaking
for all of us.
“I do not, no dear boy. It is a
simple feat that any man can do I
assure you. If his heart is stout, pure. Boys like you, or you, well…you might go down
with the ship.” He said placing emphasis on the right words. “Besides, its easy if one knows the way.”
“I’ll do it, if only to wipe that grin off your chin” I said, uncertain that
I was now standing tall. The bright eyes
around all peered intensely.
“Oh, we have a Spartan amoungst our group! Tarry ho, wary foe.”
“I mean it; honest. If only to
spite you.”
“It matters not to me, I’ve had my fun.”
“I’ll do it. By new moons rise,
hear me?”
“Come back to me when you have some proof. In the meanwhile, let us retire go. I grow bored”
As if to belabor the point, he chucked the little talisman into the dirt
as he turned.
We all talked at once after he left, none daring to reach down at the
shining silver stuck sideways in the sand.
Could it be genuine? If so,
Francois would have a red hide for a week, yet all in attendance swore not to
utter a single word other than praise.
Each merely prattled about how they could steal away on the back of the next
full moon, could just the simplest of rock of jutting from the landward side
toward the south end, or bring a piece of that hard obsidian back to show,
along with their own trinkets, of course.
“Pirates did not become legendary from their displays of boredom, or
excess lethargy,” Thomas was saying, retreating with the rest of us into the warm
of the January morn. “And mark my word, Francois will likely be
more than both, in due time. Best to
forget it while we can.”
Yet I alone had not. I had stayed
up late into that following night, too excited to sleep, truly watching the bay
for the first time in my life, studying it then as much as I watched it
now. Gazed out, down to where mysteries
and monsters were rumored to grow on the endless flat pains. In the morning I resolved a plan, wondering
at the curiosities of muddled fate.
Today being chill, cold, bright, a Sunday - with Father gone to visit
Aunt Helen in Rouen - I finalized my plan.
Even now as I descended the closest harbor ladder down to the hardpack,
I kept my eyes ever outward to the island.
The salt air was crisp to the breath, the first breezes cold and stinking
upon the open face. I readied my pack as
I gazed out across the drying brine, watching cooly as the gulls rear and dive
as the sun colored the first lines on their subtle wings.
I started down for the shore.
-------------------------------------------------------------
“Hullo!” I had been contemplating too much about the island, and
forgotten about worries of the land when that sturdy cry reached my ears. I fumbled for a minuet almost dropping my
wares as my grip slackened, feet sliding another rung down the damp steps. Gods, I even banged my chin, tasting blood,
looking around both angrily and guiltily all at who could approach in the
morning gloom.
“Gabe! Its Gabrielle, isn’t it?” shouted the bright voice again, coming
quicker now – oh how I was caught! The
old man moved about twenty or so paces on, his blue-green eyes coming up fast. It was Jacques then the fisherman, who could
sometimes be a mean drunk if the moon was right. The air was chill the day becoming bright,
yet none of these aspects seemed to be about the fellow arrayed before. His coat was as long as the pipe he held in
his clenched teeth, his shuffle as sturdy as the hands that lay buried in deep
pockets. He stood, tipping back and forth
on long feet, eyeing me warmly, warily.
“Yes…sire, it is me. The
Fishmonger’s son. What can I do for you,
on this oh so fine a day?”
“Where are you off to then Lad, on such bright morning?” Above me, the old man stood in caricatured
relief. I guarded myself with a ready answer.
“Off to pick at the oysters on the far north side of the bay, of course.”
I said slyly, pulling higher on the rails while reaching for the mollusk bag I
had brought as cover. I had rehearsed
these lines well all morning, so much so that they almost sounded true coming
from between the blood clotting now amongst my teeth. The old man merely continued to look down, then
out to the island, then back to where my tarried clothes stood dancing in the wind.
The island seemed to loom over both of us, watching, waiting hungrily.
“Aye, aye, certainly. Shells
always need picking at this time of year, and can make for good harvest when
the wind is right. But I’m just
surprised you’re not a church, m’boy? Best
not to be gone too long?” Jacques
paused, as if choosing his next words carefully, looking down the shore at all
the lines of crucifix’s that forever seemed to sprout as new weeds would. He didn’t dither in his real speech. “I’d still watch the tide though, m’boy, and
the wind if I were you. I feel a change
coming this morn, though my bones be not so old, not so brittle yet. Not the best of days to be claiming the trinkets,
I think, if you’re planning on doing more than a simple ‘picking o’ the shells’. More than a few folks have gone down in the
mire into the talk of shifting sands, I should think.” He looked back to the line of white totem,
which stretched endlessly on. Meanwhile I
smiled inwardly at myself, doing my best to keep the rouge from marking the
length of my nose.
“Only shells, yes. Everything else
is too far for my little legs, I’m afraid.
Father always told me so, and that anything else off our shore is full
of ghosts. Besides, the church ladies
will need help to clear lunch preparations.
I’ll be back soon enough.” Part
of that was true at least – no point in stretching tales too tall.
“Yes yes, so they say. I remember
those…and other strange rites. Still,” The
old man said to himself, grinning behind his tight whiskers, his gaze resembling
that of a dray horse pulled taunt. “Turned
back meself before the half day mark, least from the longer walks out there on
the hard pan. Got the feeling that there
were devils under the very sands out there.
Not as far as it seems today, if you’re lucky, and the wind is right. The bay was bigger back then, though. Still plenty of ghosts, I should say” He glanced again at the island, as if testing
me into speech a final time. A stab of
light hit him in the eye then, seeming to shine off the water or some drowned
porthole, I shall never know.
“But be sure to come back from trying your luck, once your shadow begins
to lengthen, yer take me? Longer puts us
all at great risk.” I nodded, thankful
that the gent still seemed to understand the desire that still framed young’ens
hearts. I wondered if the he would try
to make a grab at me then, or make a move or motion to stop, but no, he was
already retreating a step or two back.
“Oyster’s,” the he said, still turning as if into himself. “No use kidding to ourselves, when the
weather is ripe. Plenty of wind and rain
always just around the bend, forever it seems.”
“Of course,” I gibed, tittering
with what else to say. “I’ll be back
shortly, though! With a gift for you even.
If you’ll have it!” I nearly had to shout those last words after him, he
was moving so quick of along the docks. He
raised his own hand in some gesture as he did so, whether in salute or a fair
warning, I knew not.
Perhaps it was one of the old timers talismans?
Regardless, I trudged on, dropping past the last of the low rails,
testing the first of the silt beneath my boots.
It held well, giving a marked courage to hurry on in spite of the
growing sun. The island stood out there,
brighter now, calling, calling - the towers and minaret’s continued as a thing
of wonder. In my head swam thoughts of
sand pipers, or hands coming through the soft earth to claim me.
I faked my way far to the left, in case Jacques still watched, or had
changed his mind and call an alarm, or worse, follow.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Oh, the tides.
Our entire village had grown up learning to read the
little signs of the sea, the sky, living forever in the shadow of the town, no,
the city seeming to float along in
the middle of the bay. For some time very
long ago the monks and simple peasants of the region had claimed to see an
angel upon the islands tallest precipice calling to them from the near distance
of the bay, one speaking of promises of good fortune. From there the tales had taken a life all
their own, as at first well-wishers, then entire kingdoms had come to marvel at the miracle that seemingly unfolding
each day on the sea. Walls, tall
edifices, spires, all seemingly rose from the ocean depths, as clean waters and
fell miracles were reported on its widening shores. Pilgrims, then invaders both came to claim
this jewel for their own, yet all were kept at bay.
The main reason for all of this, for our village and that town, was the
tide. Similar to Morecrombe Bay to the
far north, the bay would drain twice daily from the shore, offering great
temptations for all passerby’s to try their luck. The many rock formations of the bay had
smashed entire legions of schooners, ships, hopes in time, pushed along by
subtle shifts in the wind or the near river at varying times. Its pull or direction could be completely
trecherously unpredictable to the outsider, keeping the island safe, and our
storehouses full. Talk of causeways or
landlocked linkages vanished beneath the monks frown, leaving the real
colonization and continued construction shipments to continue to be done by
foot, across the water.
Our town continued to flourish because of this insistence
on the old ways, and in time the entire region came to embrace the oddities of
our ways. Oft, we would have to rescue
the wayfairing pilgrim when the waves shifted, it was true, but more often than
not our lines of crucifixes to the lost rarely grew on the shoreline. In those times, the church bells rang out on
both sides of the water, but all other times stayed quiet.
It was with these and other marvels in mind that I
approached the town; an actual city. A few of the scouts on the upper walls had
seen my arrival across the hardening dustscape, yelling insults and almost
refusing me entry as I neared, before my reminders of the tide constant change
straitened their backs. I almost
resorted to having to use the local Deacons name as insurance, resisting only
out of the great fear that he truly would find me out in time. Worry too I had that the soldiers would
require bribes or token appreciation, but they let me pass upon the realization
of my actual age.
I resolved to myself that if I was ever to come again
I would ascend via the unguarded north shore, which appeared unguarded due to
its steep countenance, its windswept edifices.
In the meantime I wandered the lower quais as quick as a fiddle, trying
to soak up as many sights as I could. Ohhh,
the scents, the wild cries and calls of the place! Mushrooms and beer sold by the barrelful. Gold, tapestries, trinkets intermixed with
spices, and the ever succulent aroma of creatures of the deep were seemingly
everywhere. The very stones of this land
were alive, dancing with vigor, with mirth!
I was here, really here, watching as the monks finished their daily
services, and began chanting through the very streets. I stood, enamored with the procession.
“You there, boy – what is your name?”
A old crone had cried out, grabbing me quick before I could beware or
dodge. Deep into a shadowed corner she
pulled me, where her breath stank of rot and ale; this was not the fair maiden
I had expected!
“Your name?” she demanded, shaking
me dearly. In fear, I luckily sputtered
out that of my distant uncle.
“How came you here?” she demanded, still clutching me with a hand of
ice.
“I..I took the morning skiffs in, along with the guides, Mademoiselle; it
has made for a bore of a day, I can assure you.
Not much to do till the noon departure but wander, or gather trinkets.” She watched me closely, trying to debate
which way the day should turn. With a
sigh she turned, letting me go.
“That is a lie, and on Church Day no less. Still, better for you to lie when the tide is
still running out, than no. Have you
found some trinket to take back to your friends….or your dear lady,
perhaps? You can’t trick old Maria – she
knows too much!” Her beady eyes watched
me wearily, a viper still at coil.
“I have no need for toys!” I lied again, doing my best to cross myself
behind my back. “My father, he is around
the corner, and will begin to worry. I
didn’t tell him I’d be gone so long.”
Three times – I now thought of doubting Tomas, in a different city further
afield.
“And what be his name?”
“He is a fishmonger, same as the rest of them.”
“Same as mine was too, laddie. I
do see you have a bit of some smarts about you, but if you were wise you would
have been here half an hour earlier.” I
thought again of Jaques, cursing my luck.
She leaned closer, making me squirm.
“Still…you’ll be leaving quick then?”
“Well, the skiffs wont be back till three. I suppose I could try my way back on foot, if
you insist. My father, he…”
“Father, nothing! Get you gone,
and don’t even think of going higher in the old town.” Had she seen my eyes a wandering?
“The old abbey is too far, and they don’t treat single sojourners
well. Here,” she said, softening in a
way I would not have expected. “This is
genuine, and from the top of the pile.
It’ll stop you from dawdling too much in town. Now get you gone - may it guide you well.” She stuffed some coin, or other trinket in my
hand, pushing me along my way.
I hurried along, doing my best to try to forget the day.
---------------------
It was with these and other thoughts I slid down the north face of the
island, picking my way, eager to avoid the crones henchmen, the entry guards, or
any remaining stragglers that dared approach.
I saw the Chapelle St. Auburt to the left, thankful for both my bearing
and for the ease of the decent. I had to
go a bit further afield than I would like, feeling twice cursed, hunted. I had escaped the Old Crones nest with haste,
thinking better than to.
Best to be heading back anyways.
I also marveled at the view of my town from this distance. I had never seen the shore from this height
or angle, and it made the churches and the steep bluffs an almost rival to the
land I know walked.
Oh, I would have a tale to tell! I
was some distance out now on the sands. The
trinket glowed brightly in my hand, genuinely from the abby. Thus it was some surprise that I found myself
up to my ankle, cursing gingerly along with the heat of the day. My boot was up almost to the knee before he
realized he was in trouble.
“Merde!” I cried out to no one,
hearing the nearest gull take flight. I
had gone down fast, hard, feeling a bruise just beginning in his upper portions
of my calf. Mud, deep clay mixed with
sand splashed all around, coating my elbows, upper shirt, bringing fear. I had bitten my lip again, my pack
crestfallen somewhere off to the left.
Yet it was far worse than I could have guessed! Already my boot was filling with the soft
slime, the sock and skin chafing under the weight of murk and sand. My hands too started to sink, knees following
after.
Quicksand.
I was in real trouble now, feeling the silt give way beneath weary digits.
“No no no,” I moaned to myself. I
might have begun to cry, to scream. The
gulls circled now in honest, curious as to this new fear. For I had gone between a patch of them, not
realizing there was a reason they may have avoided this spot of mud. My pack beside him look a boat, bobbing on
the ripples his own flailings made on skin of that soup.
Don’t panic, I told myself, even
as my trousers began to fill, my right boot sinking lower. Stay
calm, and shimmy sideways. You know the
trick. I had grown up with these
tales my entire life, knew that was part of the risk of living by the bay. Yet here I was now, fighting his own mind,
doing my best to find the yogi’s poise and breath.
My fingers began to sink now into the murk, causing his heart to race, to
chatter so.
Breathe, I told myself again,
trying to calm his heart. Just breath. Now was the time to put the training to
the test. Slowly, ever so slowly I began
to shift my weight to the left. Was back
the better way to go? A quick glance behind
showed him the futility of that measure, as there was a slight bubbling from
the soil behind a thin branch that was stuck there. My hands had begun to tremble again, vomit
threatening to fly.
I relaxed my mind somehow, hands feeling the sideways motion shift as the
rest of me bobbed slowly to the surface.
The aquifer must be shifting now, pulling a million trillion tons of
silt further out beneath my feet. Slowly,
slowly – if I could keep this pace, I could just begin to shimmy out.
CRAW! A gull landed beside me, making
me scream! In an instant I forgot my troubles,
writhing sideways away from the beast, the flutter, staggering at the
noise.
“Go away you! Shoo, scat, you
bastard!! HELP!”, but it was no
good. The beast had done its damage, and
I slid deeper still. Above his heads,
more of the buzzards began to circle, curious now, ever so curious. The creature had come, hungry for another sandwich
or nibble of manflesh, and it might indeed get its wish. I was up to his waist now, slipping still
further.
For ten minuets more I wriggled and lurched all ways I could. My nerves frayed, threatening to destabilize again
and again. I yelled, pulling up large
tracks of mud in his fingers. Again and
again I raked its soft surface. Yes, I
must admit I had just about lost my mind.
At one point I gave up hope.
MY PACK!
I grabbed for the straps of the knapsack, seeing its soft weight heave
and bob in the foam off to the right. I
remembered another trick my father had taught, hardened old augerman that he
sometimes was. Reaching with digits that
were starting to chaff on the scratchy sand, I nabbed the sack on the first
try, delighted something had started to go my way. Pulling what remained from the soup, I threw
the weight as far as the arc would allow.
It stuck in the mud somewhere off to the right, making a solid twop sound which I liked. The steel canteen I had sipped upon throughout
my walk he stuck in the solid of hardpan, and with its landing, I thanked the
heavens with all my might. I felt its
heavy confides catch a bit in the semi-sweetness of the muck beyond the gulls,
free.
I pulled for a moment longer, and it stayed just enough to give some leverage.
“Ha, ha, HA, YES! Thank you!” I pulled, sinking sideways a bit, yet feeling
just enough purchase by which to slow the decent. Slowly, inch by inch I tugged, feeling my
belt began to give. Then the sand sucked
of left boot off, and I felt sweet release.
I kicked off the other boot as again went, uncaring to what depths it
now sank.
Yes, that was it! Yes,
almost. I could see the hardpack forming
grooves ahead of me. Almost. Fingers held, the sweet sand gave.
I was out!
“To the blessed Gods above, yes yes YES!”
With a mighty heave, I pulled my self out onto the first of the dry sand
near him. Onward I scrabbled, pulling
myself further from the worst of danger, nursing the twist in my ankle, the
sandpapered fingertips, all. My lips
ached. My nostrils bled. For a long minuet, I sat in the drying
hardpan, catching his breath. Above his
head, the gulls seemed to hoot, to holler.
After a moment, I lay on his back in the hot sun, watching it all as if
from some great height.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Something pounded now in my head, sounding like a cymbalic
groan gnawing on the edge of my brains. I
opened my eyes, feeling a caked film there, reeling at the dry heat now blowing
from my sandy nostrils. My mouth was
dry, my lips coated firmly with a hard brine that hurt the brains. I reached instinctively for the steel
container that had saved me only just before, pulling a long, deep draft to
quench the worst of the fears. Mewling a
bit, I pushed further up the dune, fearful of more liquefaction beginning to
rise.
“Wha?” I
wondered to myself, trying my best to look around. Every inch of me hurt. I had been dreaming of cats on the wharf,
their hard tails curling as they jumped for fish scraps, Saint Michael flying
far above. Of faces in the water. Something about the pendulum over the sides
had awakened him.
My left foot was killing me, and even after a hearty
draft of the bottle my mouth remained quite dry.
Best not to
drink too much, I scolded myself, least
this was only the first of his trials with the mud, the murk. I turned over onto my belly, doing my best
not to retch the warm water. In my
exhaustion, I must have drifted off for a bit, the warm of the sand feeling
good on bent limbs, stretched bones. Oh
how it felt wondrous to lay on the hot sand, feel the bake.
Drifted off.
That thought woke me instantly, bringing a new fear. I noticed now the shadows of the day
stretching out far beyond where my elbows lay, the satchel pack stills lying a
foot or so beyond my head. What time was
it? How long had I been out? Groaning, I pulled myself up onto my wrists,
ignoring the ache coming from all sides at once. Rubbing a bit more at my eyes, I gazed
around.
What I saw made me jump up, ignoring the screaming pains,
looking minutely to the North, dreading the sight I already knew was
there. Without a word I started off,
ignoring my pack, boots, everything.
No, I was not safe - the tide. At the edge of his vision, breakers had
clearly begun to form against the squabble of sand.
A thin trickle was starting to pool only a few yards
off.
“Oh Gods,” I moaned aloud. Had it not been for the warmth of the south
winds that were now growing upon my face, I’d have already been dead, dreaming
a different type of aqueous solution.
Oh, but how my ankle almost gave out at once! It must have been badly twisted in the sand. No matter - one question remained: land, or
island? Land or island? The promontory remained far closer.
I set his sights on the first steep cliffs, Thoughts
of his fathers whip, everything slid off him as he started a mad shuffle
forward, being sure to. Fears of quicksand continued for the path ahead. Better to be hided for staying.
It was already so far past any of that.
I stood, starting off again, hobbling from side to
side in the waining heat. The sun had
begun to descend now.
It will be a
beautiful sunset, I thought to myself, even as I pulled myself further to my
hobbling feet.
Beyond the maelstrom of the waves throbbed on the
edge of vision.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The sunset had indeed been a thing of spectacular beauty, drawn up
against the hard rain clouds that had grown on the edge of the horizon, setting
early at this time of year. The steady trickle
of the bay had created a strange optical effect, where the dagger point of the
island had been turned into a full diamond by the reflection of the water
slowly leaking into the bay. I did my
best to ignor the soft puddle growing before and behind, breaking only upon
long stride, and tried just keep moving.
The rainbow linked. Promise and
hope lay in that. A strong wind continued
to keep the worst at bay.
It had become a dangerous game over the last half
hour, now and then discarding a few of the heavier things I still found with me. Thinking of all the many hours he had lay and
baked in the dust.
Listen, listen,
do you hear the calls? Soon the town,
the city will get the ropes, have even begun to ring the bells! Boats, skiffs will follow after – you know
this – you have seen it before. Yes,
yes, it was true! Back on in the village I knew that the people would just
be going out for the evening smoke, a stroll, to walk their dogs in quiet
adoration. Few of them would watch the
bay after the sun had sank, the familiar lights and growing mists a bore to the
initiated head.
On and on I pushed, urging my dear legs past their
point of endurance.
I could hear the
tide coming now, a whipping beat growing on the edge of senses, as the wind continued
to threaten to twist, or shift.
Still, best to keep moving, even as the pinpricks of
the island continued to grow above me.
Yet the only sound that now followed was the gull’s cry, and a slow
ticking in the wind. For I had gone to
the north and not along the trade routes, and of course no pilgrim had found
me, no cry for alarm had, would ever go up.
The shrieking wind from the south covered any screams I attempted to
utter, probably sounding like rooks nestled in the Cliffside, the stars
beginning to flame and wheel overhead with no mortal sounds to be heard on
either shore.
Oh, how all hope was beginning to be lost!
Yet now before me suddenly grew a new sight! The first of the stone markers leading to the
backside of the island began appear, all in a row; I was almost saved! I had seen a few of these when scuttling off this
same face earlier, struggling in vain to recall if I had seen this group before
or where it might lead. In the growing
dim I must have wandered further east, or west, having no idea how close I was
to the island now. I was on the backside
of the island, clearly, where the natural cliffs must have reduced the need for
walls, or houses. I could imagine a
large gardenscape above, the night-monks out for their evening prayers, with
only the waves and the shrieks of the birds to keep them. The shrieks that
sometimes sounded like passerbys’s, or of lost ghosts in the waves.
I did my best to avoid the monoliths as I hurried
forward, as the slack and pull of the coming waves enough to easily crush a mans
skull against such ruins, calling, calling, forever calling.
I rubbed his eyes as he neared the first marked
boundary, for I was unsure if my cold vision was correct. A hand had been painted there, or else
carved; a white sigul against the dark of the brine. Was this the mark of people, or warning to
ward off the devils the townsfolk spoke whispers of?
Regardless, the waters motion made it appear to wave,
stained fingers shimmering brightly above the mollusk line. My feet squelched again in the soft
bracken. The silt threatened to give
beneath his feet.
Yet even as I moved forward, an even greater sight befell my eyes: there
were people up there!! For a second I
remained uncertain, their misty faces just starting to form out of the
gloom. Yet like the handprint only a few
feet now from me, they remained wavering.
Oh, how I remained, so tired, down upon a lost shore.
“Help!” I cried out to the far
crowd, misty faces that were seeming to start to turn, starting to look. How far was it now? A league?
A Mile? I cared not now, seeing
the hopes and lights growing in the eyes of the near people. I tried to wave to those first of people,
straining my eyes.
It was then that the first of the waves truly must
have found me.
The first cold sting of the high water now touched his naked calf,
sending me sprawling, causing me to scream into the first of the spree. My elbows were drenched. My head hurt.
In my mind a trumpet was blaring, adding to the weight and the worry of
the water now filling my clothes.
causing him to stand against the first of the shoving of the froth and
bubbles now invading his nose.
Yet before me I could see hands, more arms, faces calling him
onward. I tried to kick against the
rising current, push out against the surf.
Reaching, reaching up for those hands I saw above, feeling my boots weigh me down.
Boots? I thought warily. Had I once more found my boots? No, it was the thick bloatation of my socks,
now waterlogged, sinking themselves into the rind of the clay spreading out on
all sides. Each seemed to threaten to throw me off balance, my
twisted ankle screaming.
I thought for a moment of sharks, cruising in the dark depths of
night.
Again and again I went down, screaming, screaming, forever
screaming. It would be a mad dash, shear
insanity if I could make it to the cliffs edge.
A few of the gulls answered him in reverie, caring not for the rain or
the spray, nor the wind that buffeted them all.
Screaming still louder, I threw off what remained of my pack, trying to
lighten myself as much as I could, to ease the mad dash. If I had time he would have pulled at my socks, my belt, all. It was close, oh
so close. I could spy the Chapelle St.
Auburt just ahead, could see through the very windows of the near town, growing
tall, where the mobiles spun above the crib rooms. Their occupants were likely in there, people
warm and dry as I would be in an hours times.
The people on the cliff shore called.
The first of the real breakers pummeled me towards it, than began to pry
his fingers further and further away.
Got to time it, got to reach,
reach! Grab for the cliff face!
Yes, a trumpet was calling – they had sounded the
alarm!
What was this?
Ahead the lights of the town, the towers began to shift, to change. Each push of the waves against me back
brought him a little closer to the long arms of nearby shore, even as something
was tugging me down. A new trick
then? But no: the figures remained in
the darkness. Tall triangular shapes,
sprouting feet, limbs wavering from side to side as the chill air
descended.
It was so cold down here. In my mouth, the brine grew thick.
It would be a mad scramble up those sharp cliffs though, regardless, yes. The cliffs edge was coming close now, would
likely lacerate my hands, the hurtling of the waves threatening to pound skulltops
upon their slick surfaces. I thought of the many sailors who had come
out of such things, a bit battered, sometimes broken, but of high spirits. I pushed at the foam, cursing, choking on the
bathtub that had invaded my mouth.
A few of the gulls answered him with their chuckles, watching him from
safe perches, gargoyles in the night.
I made for that last scramble, a hard push towards the sliding rock. I could just begin to imagine their razor
edges on my frozen fingers, pulling ever and ever upward. I began to scream and scream as he did so,
uncaring on the ending of the world.
Onward and onward he pushed, the crowd above standing stock still and
mute, their dull eyes watching, gaping. They
were reaching out, reaching down, many chuckling, laughing as they did so,
dried tears upon their cheeksides.
Somewhere above, the gulls cried out, haughtily.
I screamed…
-----------------------------------------------------------
The old men on the wharf looked out to the sea. The thunderheads there had initially
threatened, oh yes, but a steady breeze from the south kept the worst of the
shifts beyond the bay’s mouth, bringing with it warmer air and an array of
colors that was bewildering to the eye. That
orb had seemed frozen there for a time, until it suddenly descended as a
triumphant red flame, leaving all hearts to rise and wonder with new shade that
seemed to seep over all the lands. Painters
had come to the docks along with the heat, the color, their hard easels waggling
furiously as the blood of the bay turned ochre, then to brown, with hurry or
worry to consider.
Then the wind had begun to howl its way from the north, leading to a gain
of many poems, yet the loss of many hats.
The daubers were then busy trying to ascend the slippery ladders en
masse, several losing their easels into the heavy muck growing below. Several swore, others watching their canvas
colors turn in time with the rushing waves, yet few men dared look for long -
the town, the bay, all, were too well known for the strength and hurry of the tide. Each man counted himself lucky that only his
work may dream aqueous melodies that night.
Jacques stood above them, watching it all, taking in the sights as the
brine began to lap the docks, the first of the empty stars riding high on the
ink gathering round.
No rain tonight, thank god, he
thought to himself, yet felt trouble in his heart. He wondered more about the bay’s pull, of
ghosts, and of young boys hearts; all of the fell things waiting hungry in this
world. He watched as a young couple with children
passed him, careful to keep their young-ins from the makeshift rail the sailors
had put up at dusk.
Yet what of quick dares before the weekend was out? He wondered at that too, merely digging in
his pockets for any loose tobacco that might be gathered there. No mothers were out shouting for their
children, no fathers readying a rope or a switch. His fingers went on searching,
searching.
“Tomorrow is going to be a hot one,” he said to one of his near
compatriots, edging them nervously. They
each responded by pulling their skiff up to higher places or else had secured
their wares with heavy line amongst the ebb, ignoring his talk, his
hellos. None acknowledged his opinions
as he teetered, and he quickly turned back to the bay where a feast of senses
was shimmering into oblivion.
Maybe too, one day he would get out to that promontory, and see the
spires the poets told of. Look back to
the land he now trod.
Maybe. But not now.
He cast another longing glance out to sea, where the first of the islands
lamplights had begun to twinkle on. He
had seen a mighty flock of gulls to the north just as the sun had kissed horizon,
tall wings mimicking angelic halos, close to the point where land met sea. There was beauty there, certainly, but fear
too. He remembered the bleakness in his
own heart when he decided to turn for home nigh on forty years back, of the
dragons and devils that had seemed to taunt him as he slipped and skidded on
the gunna that lead back to the town’s shore.
Too much temptation, too many songs and poems of grandeur for simple
souls to long endure the siren call.
Maybe tomorrow, Jacques would wander over, see if their was a new
souvenir amongst the high cliffs and sharp eddies, or else gather a new tale
that would make one amongst them legend.
Maybe to, he would stop by the Fishmongers house, and talk with him about
the adventures of small boys.
Instead, with a furtive glance back he turned for home. His legs were tiring him. His right hand hurt, from where he helped
pull one of the pigment-slingers up from the slippery dock. With a last glance out to sea to where the
night gulls were beginning to tarry, he turned for bed.
Tomorrow, he told himself, and
with that, he started off down the short road for home.
The church bells remained silent as he passed them, the town before
readying for sleep.
----Fin.----
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