Doggerland

by Ben Smith

  He locked the wheel, unbolted the door and was knocked off his feet as the wind threw it open. He thought he heard the old man’s voice, but it was drowned out by the clamour. He crawled back towards the doorway and out onto the deck, grabbing on to anything he could to stop himself sliding. A wave dumped down and flushed through his overalls from neck to ankles. He reached the tow-line and caught hold of the loose end. He turned to try to find somewhere more secure to tie it and another load of spray hit him square in the face. He stood, coughing, wiping his eyes, holding the tow-line in one hand. There was a judder as the cleat finally broke free. The rope slackened for a moment, the boy opened his eyes, and only just saw the slope of the wave – a gleaming wall in the glow of the lights – before it slid beneath the boat, tilting him backwards, lifting his feet from the deck.

  c.14,000 Before Present

  The sea has never been so far away.

  At some point the wind eased enough for stems to straighten. At some point the earth warmed enough for roots to work their way down and anchor the swaying mass of trees.

  The landscape grows in three dimensions – taproot to trunk, trunk to thicket, thicket to woodland to forest. Things are stable, things hold their ground. Nothing is undermined. Nothing slips.

  But this is all still water’s work.

  This is water turning to solid mass, taking its liquid forms – ripple, eddy, vortex – and translating them to tendril, flower, leaf. This is water reaching skywards, arching and holding its shape.

  This is water repeating itself. Cells dividing like foam, bark creasing into peaks and troughs.

  This is water striving for circularity. Blossom appearing in whorls, winged seeds swirling groundward. Currents cycle through xylem and phloem. Trees rise and fall in waves.

  The sea has never been so far away.

  And yet, in the deepest parts of the wood, there is something of a rock-pool stillness, something of the quiet of things submerged.

  Down

  The first time he’d fallen in the water it had been very quiet and very still. They had just come back from a long day out in the fields. Dark to dark up in the nacelles, shifting gear wheels and bedplates. The old man had been working him hard – waking him early and reeling off one job after another until there was no time to stop, or think, or do anything except climb, shift, repair and then return to the boat. The whole journey back the boy’s arms and legs had been shaking. He had been smaller then, lighter, not much bigger than the old man. He hadn’t been on the farm for long.

  They’d pulled into the dock and the old man had gone ahead to fetch the charging cable, while the boy took the toolbag back to the storeroom. He didn’t know exactly what happened. He still wasn’t used to the movement of the boat and when he stepped onto the gangway it seemed to pitch. He stumbled and fell with the toolbag into the dock.

  The weight dragged him down, but he didn’t let go. These were their only tools – the old man had kept telling him that. If he lost or broke them then they wouldn’t have anything. It didn’t even cross the boy’s mind to let go. He twisted, kicked out and sank deeper. The water got colder and there was no sound. He felt like he was moving very slowly and that the water was very thick. The grainy murk closed over him and the dock’s strip lights disappeared.

  He struggled. The weight of the bag pulled at him, but there was something else too. Even in the sheltered water of the dock he could feel the drag of the current sucking through the grilles beneath the gates. It was nothing really – barely more than a thread of energy, refracted and diffused – but it was the first time the boy had felt the power of the sea.

  For a moment the storm was silent. The water closed around him like a blanket. Then it buoyed him up and he broke the surface and his ears crackled open in the full force of the wind.

  Everything was dark. Everything was dark and he was sliding on the slope of a wave, but instead of slipping down he was moving up. The steeper the slope became, the higher he rose, until he was just below the tip. He was still holding on to the tow rope and he wrapped it round his wrist and gripped it as hard as he could, as the wave broke and drove downwards with the whole force of the storm behind it.

  This time the water wasn’t silent, but a roaring mass. The boy spun and tried to right himself, but the wave drove him deeper. The sea was white in every direction – there was no telling which way was up or down. He tried to kick, to drive with his arms, but he was rolling over and over. A space seemed to open below him and he dropped again, as though he was falling over a waterfall underwater. The weight above him was so vast he couldn’t even straighten his body. Bubbles forced themselves from his nose and mouth, his chest burned, but still he was pushed deeper, through layers of light and dark until his back pressed against a solid surface and he knew there was nowhere else to go. He kicked down with his feet and they sank into the soft seabed. He tried to pull himself up the rope, but the force of water was too great. He thought, for a moment, how strange it would be to drown with his feet on land. Then, just when he thought he would have to gasp and take in a lungful of water, the pressure slackened and he felt the tug of the air.

  He flailed, gasping to the surface, sucked in gulp after gulp. He shook the water from his eyes, tried to get his bearings. There was no sign of the maintenance boat, just the wind and rain in every direction. The tow rope trailed away into the dark. He tugged on it and felt resistance. His hands were numb and locked into fists. He forced them open and began to pull himself along the rope.

  To his right, he felt the water rising again. He took a breath and dived under, swimming through the wave as far as he could, before coming up and hauling himself along the rope again. His head was numb and he was starting to shiver uncontrollably. He had to keep moving, keep his blood pumping. He tried to kick his legs, but he couldn’t feel them, or tell if they were even moving. All he could do was focus on his hands and keep hauling himself along.

  He had to be nearing his boat, but he couldn’t see anything through the rain. Suddenly the rope tightened and it was yanked through his hands. He splashed, grabbed and eventually forced his fingers to close, barely two feet from the end of the line. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and began to pull himself along again.

  The cold bit in deep, his muscles began to throb with a dull pain, and all he could think of was swinging one arm after the other, pulling himself inch by inch along the rope. The waves picked him up and dumped him down, dragged him left and right as if they were trying to split him apart. It became harder and harder to hold on, to will his fingers to open and close. His thoughts shrank back to the last warm cavities of his skull. He had barely the strength to push himself under when he saw the hull of the boat bearing down on him.

  He twisted in the water, lifted his arms to shield his head and felt the rough metal bulk pressing down. He kicked, tried to pull himself further up the rope, but couldn’t get out from under the mass of metal. The current was pushing against him, his lungs burned; there was nothing else to do. He let go of the rope, the current sucked him out, and he came up by the side of the boat.

  He reached out, tried to find something to grab onto, but could only bang his numb hands against the metal before he was dragged away. He floated, caught his breath and tried to swim back, but a wave lifted the boat and he had to fight to stop himself being dragged under again. He could feel the side of the boat tilting above him. He reached up and at that moment a wave lifted him, slamming him into the hull. His body went limp and his vision shrank to a crackling grey tunnel. The wave pulled him back and flung him up once more. He landed hard on his stomach across the gunwale. His breath left him in a sharp gasp and he was about to slip back into the sea when his hand brushed against a cleat. His fingers closed and, somehow, he managed to hold on.

  The boat tipped again. His feet dipped into the water. He held on with all his strength and, as the boat began to roll back the other way, he dragged himself up and onto th
e deck.

  He opened his eyes and saw only rain and dark outlines. The wind screamed, sweeping itself across the sky like a trawling net. Still holding on to the cleat, he reached out and felt the corner of the cabin. Crawling on his stomach, not daring even to kneel, he worked his way along until he found the doorway. The door was open and banging every time the boat lurched. He grabbed hold of the bottom of the doorway, pulled himself in and kicked the door shut.

  He dragged himself over to the steering column, wrapped his arms round it and closed his eyes.

  At some point in the night the wind stopped screaming. At some point in the night the waves stopped pitching the boat at forty-five degrees. At some point in the night the boy must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes again it was day.

  He tried to lift his neck, but all he could manage was to turn his head to the side. He screwed his eyes shut, rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his knees. His whole body was aching and the right side of his chest stabbed with pain each time he took a breath. His palms throbbed; there were patches where the skin had been rasped off and the flesh shone raw underneath. He reached carefully into his pocket for his watch, but it was gone.

  He got up shakily and went over to the nearest window, then took a step back as the boat drifted a few metres from the biggest turbine he’d ever seen.

  He leaned forward and looked up. It must have been a hundred and fifty metres to the nacelle. The jacket was almost as wide as the boat was long, the platform and railings high above the deck. All around, there were turbines of equal size rising like cliff-stacks into the sky, shifting their enormous blades in circuits of hundreds of metres. The cloud was not low, but the tips of the blades still disappeared in haze as they reached the tops of their arcs.

  The boy had read about turbines like this in his technical manuals, but he’d never imagined he’d ever see them. These fields were the last of the farm to be built, back when they still built farms, but they had never been finished. They were hooked up to the grid, but the maintenance system and cameras had never been installed. The boy had often looked at them on the map and wondered what they were like, but their nearest edge was over eighty miles from the rig – well beyond the maintenance boat’s range.

  It was a bright day and the wind was blowing clean and consistent. The turbines swept their gleaming blades in and out of the clouds. The boy couldn’t take his eyes off them.

  A wave washed back from a nearby jacket, rocking the boat. There was a hollow clang from somewhere in the hull and the deck pitched at an angle and stayed there.

  The boy looked out at the deck, strewn with rope and tarpaulin. He looked around the cabin, at the steering column, the useless ignition switch, the empty hole where the satnav and the tracker should be. There was another clang from the hull. He was over eighty miles from the rig, in a listing boat with a broken engine. He looked up as he drifted past another turbine. He had to stop moving.

  He went into the cabin and tested the steering. It worked. The boat was sluggish, but it worked. He could get in close to a tower, but he’d need a way of catching hold of the jacket. Then he saw the tow-line, still hanging from the bow of the boat.

  He took the hook from one of the mooring cables and attached it to the end of the tow-line. He had to work just with his fingers, keeping any pressure off his raw palms. He kept dropping the rope as he tried to coil it, but eventually he managed to get everything ready.

  In the cabin, he lined the boat up, so it would drift near to the next turbine, then he locked the wheel and went back on deck. The turbine loomed in close. He lined up his shot, tested the weight of the hook and threw it up at the jacket.

  The hook flew straight at the rail, then dipped at the last minute and fell into the water. The coil had tangled and caught on the gunwale. The boy grabbed the rope and hauled it back in. The rope scraped against his palms and they started bleeding. He pulled down his sleeves to cover them and carried on hauling. The boat drifted slowly on. When he had the hook on deck he untangled the coil. The boat passed the end of the jacket. The boy lifted the hook, quickly took aim and flung it as hard as he could. The hook went over the rail, bounced off the tower and landed on the platform. As the boat drifted on, the remaining rope unravelled slowly from the deck. Then, when it had reached its limit, the hook rose up from the platform and scraped along the top of the rail. The boy watched, the boat drifted, the hook scraped, wobbled and caught on the junction with one of the uprights. The rope tightened. The boat turned a slow arc. The rope quivered. The boat stilled.

  The boy sat down heavily on the deck. He could feel his muscles beginning to seize up. He had to pull himself in to the tower. He had to get properly moored. He had to check the engine, he had to … He looked around at his useless boat, then down at his useless, bloodied hands. He ran through the list again. He had to get properly moored, he had to check something, he had to … He clenched his fists and gasped at the pain in his hands, then flinched at the pain in his ribs.

  His thoughts surged again. He had to check things, he had to get things secure, he had to … The other boat. The boy stared straight ahead across the deck. The old man. The old man was still on the other boat. What had happened? He tried to think back. They’d had a fight. The storm had hit. When he’d left the cabin, the old man had been sitting in the corner holding on to the strap. He’d looked at the boy. He’d said something. What was it? The boy tried to think, but all he could remember was the wind blasting into the cabin, the door slamming open and closed. He felt a tightness grip his chest and throat and he almost retched, spitting up a mouthful of seawater.

  How much charge had been left at the end? He closed his eyes, tried to remember the control panel, the number on the gauge. But as soon as he did so, he saw the storm – the toppling waves, the sideways spray. He could feel the pull of the water on his limbs, the weight and the pressure of it.

  He opened his eyes and tried to think but he was so tired. He needed to rest. He closed his eyes again. The waves towered over him. The weight and pressure pulled at him. He lay down on the deck. Maybe he should just stay here for a while. It would be easier to just stay here and rest. He didn’t need to open his eyes. The deck was almost comfortable. He felt almost warm. Maybe he didn’t need to move any more.

  He’d tried to get the toolbag up on top of him and push it back up through the murky water of the dock, but he was too weak. He sank lower. The current coming under the gates tugged at his feet.

  A shadow wavered above him – a dark shape that appeared and disappeared in the ripples. The boy reached up, made a last grasp for the surface, then felt the hard metal of a boathook. He grabbed it and held on as he was hauled up through the water.

  He came up to the surface retching, kicked, and then, with the last of his strength, made it to the ladder.

  Rough hands grabbed the toolbag from him, then reached down, took hold of his collar and dragged him up onto the gangway.

  ‘Why the hell did you keep hold of that bag?’ The old man’s voice was hoarse.

  The boy didn’t answer. He lay down on the gangway and didn’t move. He felt almost warm. He was so tired. The days had been so long, the work had been so hard. Maybe it would be easier to just stay there and rest. He closed his eyes. Water dripped off his clothes and fell like rain through the grille.

  ‘Get up.’

  The boy opened his eyes slowly. The old man was standing over him. His arms were crossed and his voice echoed off the dock’s walls. The boy wished he would stop talking so loudly and leave him for a moment, let him rest – he wouldn’t be long; it was just that he was so comfortable. The water down there had been so quiet and so still.

  The old man didn’t reach down to him. He kept his arms folded tight across his chest. ‘Get up now,’ he said.

  Up

  Inside, the turbine felt even bigger. From the bottom, the gantry where the towe
r met the nacelle wasn’t even visible. The pallid wall lights grew smaller and then vanished from sight. It was like staring up a mineshaft that had been cut out of the sky. Every sound echoed up the tower and came back down a few moments later, strange and distorted.

  The wind gusted through the open doorway. The boy was still soaking and he was starting to shiver again. It had taken a long time to pull the boat in. He’d torn strips off the bed sheets and wrapped them round his hands, but his palms were still throbbing. It was late in the day and it would be getting cold soon. He had to get up to the nacelle, get dry and warm, then try and figure out where he was, what to do.

  He pressed the button for the service lift, but nothing happened. He pressed it again. Nothing. The turbine had power – its lights were on and he’d seen its blades turning. It just didn’t have a working lift. The boy closed his eyes and tried to rub some life back into his freezing limbs. Of all the turbines he could have picked … He tried to order his thoughts, which grated like sea ice in his skull. He couldn’t risk casting off again. Even if he managed to hook onto another turbine, there was no guarantee that its lift would be working either. He considered going back to the boat or just staying at the bottom of the tower. No, if he didn’t get up into the nacelle before nightfall, he’d freeze. He looked up the tower and at the narrow service ladder that rose, parallel to the lift shaft, up the sheer and tapering wall. At least it would warm him up.

  The boy had climbed turbines before, but nothing of this scale. The ladder was standard size, which meant four rungs per metre. Which meant … which meant a lot of rungs. When he looked up, the horizontal lines began to judder, so he stopped looking up. He reached out and took hold of a rung. Next to the ladder there was a bright yellow panel giving detailed instructions on the correct usage of a safety harness and slider. The boy looked down at his cloth-bound hands. He waited a moment, stretched his neck, then started to climb.