Falls the Shadow

by Tommy Dakar

4

  The lighthouse stuck to its 1.1.4 rhythm, the searching eyes of light scowling and winking across the rough land and strong sea, silently warning. On cool star-lit high-heavened evenings, twirling its gown of light gaily, rhythmically, 1.1.4 or through the light opaque mist, solemnly revolving in mysterious foreboding. Its light chased shadows across the cottage walls, shadows which shattered and darted and fled in confusion, only to re-group immediately and hide between the cracks and corners of the cold stone. He knew it was always there, irritating or comforting, insistently spinning, 1.1.4, 1.1.4, 1.1.4.

  He sat on a rock on the shoreline, the last tired waves swirling at its base, desperately trying to cling to something but always being dragged back, sucked under, leaving the faintest trace of claw marks in the golden sand. Out on Heron Point the lighthouse had begun its nightly dance, and the rhythm seemed to influence the movement of the waves, as if it were the conductor of some ancient orchestra, an intelligible symphony. Somewhere beyond the thick band of clouds the sun was setting, dropping unseen into the drowned ocean, while behind him the night whispered in conspiracy of darkness.

  He was tired and approaching the end of his day. His legs hung motionless over the rock and his body was slumped, as heavy as guilt. He was too fatigued to shift his uncomfortable position. Behind him, in the dry sand, was a pile of driftwood he had just collected. To carry it back and prepare the fire for the night would be his last chore, at least the last one before midnight, when he would have to refuel the fire - no matter how he tried he couldn't make it last all night. And they were long, long nights, too long even for his weariness. He found himself unable to sleep for more than six or seven hours at most, and towards dawn he would feel wide awake and ready to work. But the cold, the dark, the isolation didn't encourage him to get up, and instead he would lie in his bed, sheltering in the heavy heat of his blankets thinking, remembering and planning.

  Tonight though he was exceptionally tired and looking forward to sleeping until daybreak. The reason was that he had been repairing the roof of his cottage, replacing broken tiles and water-proofing with thick tar. He had enjoyed it though it had taken longer than he had expected, and now he had a pleasant feeling of completion settling in his limbs.

  Opposite Heron Point, on the right of the bay, the seagulls were squabbling over land rights on the stacks that stepped into the sea, rising and screeching in puffs of white activity, resettling like dust or flecks of snow. The sea was between tides and as calm as the Mediterranean, the colour and texture of mother of pearl. The clouds were deepening, becoming a rich, nightly violet, quietly snuffing the light.

  He waited until the waves receded a little then sluggishly pushed himself to the ground. He trudged over to where his pile of fuel lay, picked it up roughly and set it under his arm, then walked back through the gaunt rocks to his home. Inside the light from the fire was either playing or fighting with the shadows in the cottage, flickering in endlessly changing patterns on the walls and across the surfaces of the wooden furniture. He put the wood near the fire and lit a candle which shivered uncontrollably in the wind which always accompanied night. He closed the door and draped a blanket across it to block the draughts.

  There was virtually nothing in the hut that wasn't essential, or at least functional. There was a bed, a table, and a chair, a candle, some kitchen objects and his fishing tackle. There were also jars of chicken feed and some wire meshing by the sink, and a small box of tools. All these things he could justify as necessary to his existence. But when it came to luxuries, even small, pathetic ones like a razor blade or some writing paper, he found himself in a moral argument he was usually unable to solve. It was at these moments when all his doubts and confusions came out, and he understood his inability to see clearly, to draw lines. He remembered, for example, his internal battle over books. Could he, should he, allow himself something as superfluous, as consumerised, as mechanised as a paperback novel? He thought of all the middle-class conformists who had contrived it, of all the petty, grubby, money-based fingers that had handled it, and recoiled. He tried to think of it having some use, and failed. For a long time he denied himself anything to read. Then it occurred to him that he himself might write something, a diary perhaps, and that it might possibly be of use to somebody else who wanted to search for something. Then he became confused again, lost in his own causes, fighting for a clear line of vision. Eventually, he resolved to buy books that could be called 'literature', or 'art', at least something that was more than just another story. For almost two weeks he waited for the farmer to bring him the books (he would never be able to allow himself to leave his cove now, he knew that), but when they eventually arrived they seemed to be about a different world, a world of crystal and air that hardly existed, hardly contained even a suggestion of reality. They seemed to be written either by hypnotists or the hypnotised, and no matter how he tried to interpret them they had no significance in the face of Heron Point, where never a heron was seen, or the flights and fights of the gulls, the peace and power of the sea. He finally burnt them page by page, noticing the beauty of the tortured print as they faded to ash, died, and rose lightly in the fiery arms of flames.

  He banked the fire, stripped naked and stood in front of the hearth, allowing the heat and fatigue to mingle, melt and fuse into a sensation of numbness. In the half-light it didn't matter that his hair was greasy, that there was dirt in his fingernails, that there was a band of white scum around his penis. Instead his skin seemed to glow, almost to be made of wax, softening in the firelight. He ran his hands over his chest, his stomach, down to his groin. For a second he held his hand lightly around his genitals, closed his eyes and swayed a little. Somewhere in his tired thoughts a summer day was approaching, open doors to oily heat, as yellow and viscous as honey. Past the gypsy camp and over the brook to that field so long ago it seems improbable it ever happened. The sea rolled in to shore and lapped around the rocks as day succeeded to night, town night, cars swishing past the lamp-lit dormer window, the television packed and left, and the sureness of her oceanic calm, kissing me, lapping me, releasing me. It was a constant torment, the enforced celibacy; it was a tragic side-effect of his decision. And all around the world procreated, spawning and leafing and perpetually dawning, sex in bright, unselfconscious daylight, honest and innocent, an ugly, guttural scream which at times would fill the air with its purity, its truth. Yet here, between the walls, under the blankets, it became a sticky guilty affair, seamed with parental scorn and social disgrace.

  And in moments of doubt, when his cynic forced him to explain his actions, rejustify his every mental step, it was this that remained unresolved. And again tonight.

  Daybreak arrived without fuss, light growing as imperceptibly as hatred, rousing the cove to life. Despite the glowing embers of the fire the room was damp and chilly, and his clothes felt disgusting against his warm smooth flesh. He re-arranged the fire, raising it to flame, and warmed himself a little. He was wide awake without a trace of sleepiness or dreaminess, about to begin another day of ensuring his survival. After he had warmed up a little he washed his hands and face in a pitcher he kept under the sink, then set off for the spring with his goatskin.

  He left the cottage and climbed up the hill which led away from the sea. At first it was difficult, the ground being sandy and unfirm, but after a while it gave way to a well-worn path through thistles and gorse bushes, gradually twisting over the hill out of sight of the sea. The spring was small but forceful, issuing out of a large rock and half obscured by bracken and ferns, twisting and plaiting in diamond strands. He filled the goatskin. Before going back to the cottage he would cross over a few more hills and check to see if the farmer had left his bread and milk, things which he paid for when and how he could, possibly with crabs or lobsters or possibly the odd chicken. He rarely met the farmer, they kept a kind of receipt book/order book in the old shepherd's hut, and they mostly communicated through that. On the rare occasions when they did come across e
ach other they would both feel extremely ill at ease, say little, and depart quickly. There were other people too from time to time, once or twice the farmer's wife, some children, nearby fishermen or shepherds, and even some hill walkers from the cities, but they were easy enough to avoid and anyway, it wasn't really human contact he was hoping to escape from, merely humanity.

  The key to the hut was kept under a rusty lump of metal about ten yards away, although there was never anything worth stealing except perhaps the milk and bread and the occasional tool. Inside it was gloomy and damp with the faintest of light filtering through a grille at the back just below the ceiling. To one side lay a large tin box, the provisions would be inside. He opened the box and took out the bread and milk, and noticed a little package extra wrapped in a serviette. Surprised he opened it to find a piece of birthday cake, pink icing and filling, and a little note saying 'our little girl Tracy thought you might like to try her birthday cake, she made it herself.' He smiled and looked again at the piece of cake. How out of place it seemed in his dirty hand, in the gloom of the old hut, delicate and pink and sweet, made by a child for no other reason than that it was her birthday. Suddenly it struck him as fine, very fine, that Tracy, whoever she may be, should celebrate the day of her birth, and like that, creating something beautiful and sweet to brighten a stranger's day. Carefully he wrapped it up and put it in his pocket. He picked up his provisions and locked the hut, remembering to replace the key under the metal, then returned to his cottage.

  Walking back everything seemed to be just right. There was an uncontainable joy in his heart, directly linked to the cake, and it overflowed into all he could see around him. He felt as if he were composed of all the elements that surrounded him, of air and water, salt and fire, earth and wind, his limits he felt to be the limits of the universe, and unconsciously he raised his eyes to the clouds, across the hills, out towards the vast ocean. And he knew in a sense that he was created of those things, that without them he would not exist, that perhaps without him the material world would find no expression. It was a huge, grand feeling that knew no obstacles, could encompass all, and he owed it all to Tracy and the day of her birth. Breakfast of boiled eggs, bread, milk, and of course half the pink cake (the other half for supper). It had been so long since he had tasted anything as luxuriously sweet, and it tasted almost absurdly good. As he went about the rest of his morning's work, feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs, checking the vegetable patch and the lobster pots, he felt warm and happy and, somehow, right. It was as if only the justified could ever feel such natural joy.

  He decided while dragging his boat up the shore, to return the gesture and give her a birthday present.

  Later that afternoon it began to rain, slightly at first, then stronger until it seemed to thrust itself into the ground aggressively, like an animal. Now he would see if his roof was repaired or not. He sat down at his table and watched the day close up, refolding like a bloom, darkening and sheltering from itself. Gradually the hut began to drip, at first over the door, then to the left of the fireplace, and worst of all, another just to the side of his bed. Mentally he marked the places as he arranged pots to collect the rain water. He was less happy now, his joy washing away in the weather, dripping out of him, leaking away to irritation. A whole day spent on the roof and still it leaked. Luckily there was more tar left. I suppose I shall have to get up there again as soon as it dries out. His infinite feeling had vanished and left him damp and miserable by the sea on a rainy day with nobody but a guilty conscience as company and half a piece of cake. He picked up the remainder of the cake and ate it. Perhaps it was damp, or perhaps it had gone stale during the day, but somehow it tasted less rich, drier yet soggier, almost sickly. The tissue paper had stuck to the icing and ruined the effect, and it seemed to be falling apart. He remembered his decision to make the girl a present, but he knew he had nothing to give, least of all to a child. He licked the last crumbs off his fingers and they tasted of sea-salt, and he suddenly felt old, ancient, older than civilisation, and with it came a weariness, a deadness in the muscles, and his face muscles sagged, his shoulders hunched, and he knew there would be no birthday present for Tracy, just as there would by no happiness in his life, or no salvation for humanity. It is a fact, there isn't enough to give, dry men need all their water for themselves. He remembered his inflated joy and saw it for what it was. It was the vanity and pompousness of a dreamer, of a child, the age old claim to Godhead. Well it isn't so, and Man is not half-God but half-beast, and Tracy will grow up and stop making cakes, find other more deadly recipes, grow old and let her birthdays pass unnoticed, eventually succumbing to the unbearable fact that there is too much pain and sorrow and grief in the world and that pink icing is simply a booby prize. The darkness and the rain penetrated, crushed the day to night, and in their homes the men-children shivered, pretending they were simply cold and that they understood, not afraid before the inevitable dark.

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