by Mark Morris
The ring was old and heavy in Tim’s hand. When he looked closely he could see there were layers of fine scratches in it, but between the blemishes, it still shone. He peered at the surface, then quickly looked at the old man, to see if he was being mocked.
Then, in the surface of the ring, he saw a dark outline against a bright oval. It looked a little like a face. He leaned closer and the shape grew bigger; it was nothing but his own reflection. He frowned.
“Aye, well. Maybe he din’t want to come out today. Let’s go and look for fossils. We might find some by t’ beck.”
The sea was loud again in Tim’s ears as he walked by Grandad’s side, talking now of boggles, now of smugglers and now of dinosaurs. The coast was Jurassic, Grandad said, and that made Tim think of T-rexes; he wondered if one could be buried, now, in the cliff. He looked at the beach with different eyes. When he knew the stories, the place was better. Boggle Oyle. He remembered what Grandad had said about his beach: ours has got treasures. He slipped his hand into Grandad’s dry fingers, and when Grandad smiled at him, Tim grinned back.
* * *
The “treasure” was a small grey handful of stone, curled into a tight circle that was roughened at one side where the spiral had broken. It didn’t look like treasure, but Grandad said it was a “hammonite”, so Tim supposed it must be. He examined it while Grandad took out his pipe and lit it, sitting on a large smooth rock at the head of the cove.
After a while Tim stopped looking at the fossil and started watching the sea, and after that he watched Grandad.
“Why don’t you smoke in the house?” he asked, and then caught himself. Now that Grandma isn’t there any more, he had been about to add, but it struck him that it would be cruel, not a nice thing to bring up. When he looked at Grandad, though, he saw the old man knew what Tim had been about to say.
“She never did like it, son,” he said, taking the pipe from his lips and staring down at the damp black stem. “She didn’t like the smell, see. Said it lingered.” His eyes went out of focus. “And she were right, as usual. Bad habit. So I always went outside.”
“But—”
“Aye, I know.” Grandad’s voice was gentle. “I know she’s gone, lad. I could smoke in t’ house if I wanted. But—I sorter think her memory might not like it either, know what I mean? And I don’t want to do something her memory wouldn’t like. Case I chase it away.”
He fell silent, staring into space, and Tim thought he should say something else, but he couldn’t think what. And so he fell silent too, as if it were something catching, like whooping cough maybe. As if it had followed them from the house and onto the beach.
“Come on,” said Grandad, tapping out the burnt contents of his pipe. “We’d best get on. Light’s going already, and the tide comes all t’ way up this beach. You can get stuck. Best put that fossil back, now.”
“Put it back?”
“Aye, lad.” Grandad’s face broke into its steady slow smile. “You mustn’t take anything from this ’ere beach. Din’t I tell you that? It’ll upset t’ boggle, see. Take summat of his and he might just take summat from you. And how’d you like that?” He winked. “’S no lie, lad. Every word of it’s God’s honest truth.”
* * *
They went back to the beach the next day. Tim walked up and down the seafront, peering into rock pools. Some had brownish-pink squashy things clinging to the rock, bulging and flexing as clear water washed over them. The rocks were made rougher still by barnacles, some with smaller barnacles clinging to their sides. Tim tried to grip one and pull it from the rock, but it wouldn’t budge. He stomped instead on a thick mat of bladderwrack, trying to pop the blisters in its dark green fronds.
He looked back up the beach. By the beck—Stoupe Beck, Grandad had called it—two men were standing by the base of the cliff. One of them bent and slipped something into his pocket. Tim grinned. The man had found a fossil— maybe even the same one Tim had found yesterday—and that made him think of the boggle; the revenge it might take for stealing from its beach.
He turned towards Grandad. The old man wasn’t smoking his pipe; he was watching Tim. He grinned and waved and Tim ran towards him, laughing. He put out his hands to catch him when Tim drew close.
“Let’s have a look for the boggle, Grandad.” Tim pointed towards his left hand.
After a moment, the old man understood. He fumbled the ring from his finger and passed it to Tim. “Careful, now.”
Tim wasn’t sure if he meant about the ring or in case he saw the boggle reflected in its surface. He peered into the gold, turning it in his fingers. He could see clouds, and the hazy shape that was him. Nothing else. He frowned. God’s honest truth, the old man had said.
Grandad tapped the side of his nose before holding out his hand for the ring. “Only when he wants to be seen, son,” he said. “Now, how’s about I teach you to find something shiny for yourself?”
They walked up and down the beach, but it didn’t work. Grandad stopped and bent with a “pfft” and scraped through the stones with his fingers. There was nothing.
“You have to walk with the sun behind you, see,” he said. He pointed at their shadows, dim and hazy. Tim turned and tried to make out the sun; there was only a place where the clouds were a little brighter.
“It’s best at sunrise or sunset. You walk with it behind you and it shines ’em up, see, like they’re polished. Sometimes there’s agate, or carnelian. You can’t see ’em for looking, normally. They’re dull, like pebbles. But when the sun’s low and shining on ’em—they glow. You can see t’ gemstones then. They shine right back at you.” He winked. “Maybe it’s the boggle. They’re his treasure too, see. P’raps he won’t let ’em go, not today.”
Tim lit up. “Tomorrow, then?” He looked once more over his shoulder at the faint trembling light.
Grandad sighed, then smiled. “Aye, lad. Tomorrer.”
* * *
The next day, Tim fidgeted through games and sandwiches and television programmes. Sometimes Grandad caught him looking at the window, watching anxiously for rain, and each time he did they would share a smile; sometimes, they laughed. It wasn’t until later, when they were about to set off, that Tim realised he hadn’t thought about the Silence at all. It had retreated, hiding at the back of the airing cupboard or under a bed, somewhere quiet and small and still, until it could come out again. Maybe tomorrer, Tim thought, and grinned to himself as they got into the car.
The sun was bright and low, shining straight into Tim’s eyes, dazzling him. It was going to work. He knew it even as they pulled into the little car park above the beach and saw the fossil hunters packing up to leave. Their car was grey and looked older even than Grandad’s, and when Grandad saw it, he gave a low whistle. “Look at that,” he said in a low voice. “’Appen t’ boggle’s nicked their hubcaps.”
Tim grinned even wider. Take summat of his, he thought, and he might just take summat from you.
At first, Grandad watched while Tim carefully set the sun at his back and walked along the seafront, crunch, crunch over the pebbles. He said he was keeping an eye on the tide just in case, but Tim knew he was really having a puff on his pipe.
When he’d walked a distance away he turned and walked back and then he tried again. This time, the sun seemed— not brighter, but redder. Readier, he thought, and he turned towards the boggle’s cave and stuck out his tongue.
His shadow was sharper where it lay against the pebbles, each stone sharply delineated with a black crescent. Every fissure and crease in the sand had its own crisp shadow. Now, Tim thought. He stretched out one foot in a long stride and let it fall again. Crunch. Then again. Crunch. The sun was at his back. His shadow was long before him. It looked like some kind of giant: for scaring boggles away, he thought. So he can’t hide his treasures. And something shone amid the grey and the murk and the stone. It glowed like living sunset fallen to the beach, a footprint marking the way to the boggle’s hoard.
Tim pounced
on it. When he straightened and looked at what was in his hand, though, he frowned. It was nothing but a dull pebble about half the size of his thumb, reddish perhaps, but with a surface that was greyed like old skin. It wasn’t even a nice pebble, and he drew his hand back ready to throw it into the sea when he had a thought.
He turned and the sun glared into his eyes. He held the stone between thumb and finger, and the light shone through it. It was like something alive, the bright orange-red of carnelian. He turned to his grandad with a look of triumph, but the old man was busy tamping out his pipe on a rock. Then he stood and raised a hand, half waving, half beckoning.
Tim looked down at his feet as clear frothing water rushed over them, stirring the tiny stones as if in offering: take one of them instead. He closed his hand over the gemstone and slipped it into his pocket. Then he started to make his way back up the beach.
It was in the car that Grandad made the sound. It was a little choking cough, way back in his throat. Then he started breathing really loud and patting at his coat, wriggling in his seat to check his trouser pockets.
“What’s up, Grandad?” asked Tim.
Grandad didn’t answer; he only looked back at the boy with wide open eyes. They were watery at the edges.
“Grandad?”
“It’s me ring,” he answered at last, and he held out his left hand, the fingers spread. “Me ring, see. Her ring.” He panted and patted some more. “I must ’ave dropped it.” He stopped, gripping the steering wheel as if holding on. “I must ’ave.” He looked down at his hand, at his broad fingers. Tim remembered the way he’d worked the ring off his finger, twisting and pulling until it came loose.
“You looked in it, din’t you, lad?” He turned to Tim, his eyes lighting up. “You did.”
Tim shook his head. “That was yesterday,” he whispered. “Yesterday, Grandad, remember?”
But Grandad hardly seemed to hear as he turned away from Tim, staring out of the window. “It’s too late,” he said, breathless. “Tide’s coming in. It’s too late to go and look.”
* * *
That evening, the Silence was back. It had grown while they were away, stretching itself into corners and around walls and seeping through doorways that should have kept it out. The television was on, but there wasn’t any sound. Grandad stared at it without seeming to see. His eyes hadn’t dried. He kept nodding to himself, as if listening to something Tim couldn’t hear. He kept turning towards the photograph of a grandmother Tim didn’t remember, a woman he didn’t know. He’d glance at it and then away, quickly, as if he couldn’t bear to look any longer.
Tim hunched himself into the chair, trying to make himself smaller. Silence expanded to fill the gap he left behind.
His hand went to his pocket and he found the thing he’d put there. The stone was small and smooth and cold. Tim ran his fingers over it, but it didn’t seem to get any warmer. He turned and turned it in his pocket, and he tried not to think, and he closed his eyes.
* * *
The next day Grandad didn’t talk about the beach. He didn’t seem to want to talk about anything. He made breakfast, his hands shaking, and then he switched on the television and sat there without looking at it.
Tim went to his side. “We’ll find it today, Grandad, won’t we?”
Grandad shifted, but he didn’t reply.
“We’ll go back to the beach, won’t we?”
The old man shot him a quick look and put out a hand and ruffled Tim’s hair. It pulled, but Tim didn’t protest. He was thinking of the stone in his pocket. Me, he was thinking. You should have taken something from me. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
“Please, Grandad,” he said, and this time his voice got through.
Grandad turned. “I s’pose. Aye, all right then.” Tim had to lean closer to hear him. “Come on, lad.”
A short time later they got out of the car and walked together down the narrow lane, towards the sea. The sky was packed with low gathered clouds and the sea gave back the grey in a dull shine. The waves were slow and effortless, giving way to the beach in tired little wafts.
Grandad stood where he’d sat the day before, looking at the ground. He gestured to Tim. “Go and play now, lad.”
Tim nodded and turned away. He knew where he was going; it was all right. Better that he should go alone. He made his way up the beach. When he looked back, Grandad wasn’t watching. He was staring down at the ground, at the millions of pebbles, and he wasn’t moving.
Tim started to run. He only stopped when he reached the mouth of the boggle hole, listening to the silence coming from inside; and then he stepped forward and went in, and the cave swallowed him.
His hand was in his pocket. He clutched the stone.
He opened his mouth to speak but his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I brought this for you.” He took the carnelian from his pocket and held it out. “I want you to give the ring back.”
He looked into the corners of the cave. It was no good, it wasn’t here. Instead he felt the Silence massing behind him, coming from the sea. He turned and found he could hear it after all, mocking him: Hush. Hush.
He stepped out into the light and stared. Had the sea taken the ring? It came right up to the cliffs, Grandad had said. Right into the cave. It would have crept over the beach in the dark, greedily sucking and reaching for any bright thing it could find. His gaze went to the roughened rocks between here and the shore, just as the sun cleared the clouds for an instant; it shone back from a watery surface and was gone.
Tim started to walk towards it, picking his way. It was a rock pool, a wide one, its bottom lined with dregs of sand and fringed with black fronds like hair in bathwater. The sides were sharp overhangs; no telling what could be hiding beneath. Crabs, maybe. Fish. Fish with teeth. Tim narrowed his eyes as the light caught the surface of the water once more. Shiny, he thought, and shuddered.
And then he saw what lay beneath the water. He gasped and rushed towards it, falling to his knees onto the rock. It hurt, but he didn’t think about that.
There, lying on the pale sand under the clear water, was a thick gold ring. Tim looked up; his grandad was a small figure standing on the beach, staring into the waves. Maybe it was better that way. Tim could imagine the surprise on his face when he ran to him and held it out. He let out a spurt of air, almost a giggle, and thought he heard an answering sound somewhere behind him.
He tried to turn; there was nothing there. It was an echo, that was all, coming from the cave or the cliff; the sound of water trickling through stone.
When he looked back into the pool, the ring remained. He pushed up one sleeve, gripped a spike of rock and leaned over, pushing his hand into the icy cold. He opened his fingers, grasping for the ring—and they closed on nothing. There was only sand, fine grains of it, the sand he’d wanted to find when he first came here; now he didn’t want it. He let it slip through his fingers with a little cry. He withdrew his hand. When the drips and circles on the water subsided the form took shape again, a golden ring sitting on the surface of the sand. No, not on the surface; above the surface.
Tim frowned and reached for it again, leaning further this time. He poked at the ring with one finger, meaning to spear it through its heart, but there was nothing there.
He sat back again, letting the water grow still. There; a ring, but nothing he could grasp. And then he understood.
“It’s here,” he muttered. “Here. Have it.” He took the carnelian from his pocket and held it over the water a moment, seeing it dull and lifeless in his hand. He let it drop.
The carnelian fell into the water with a plop, and it vanished.
Tim frowned. He leaned in again. There was no carnelian; he couldn’t see it anywhere. He poked at the sand again to see if the stone had been covered in its fall, but there was nothing.
Then he saw a bright glow coming from the other side of the pool; an orange-red glow, something small at the bottom of the water. He shifted his knee
s, shuffling his way over the rocks. There was something there. He could see it when the sun shone behind him. He glanced at where he’d been. Blinked. He couldn’t understand how it had passed from there to here. Perhaps this water was flowing after all, going back to the sea, and had carried the stone with it. Or maybe it was a reflection, something about the nature of the pool and the sun and his eyes. He shook his head; it didn’t matter. What mattered was, he could see the carnelian below him. It was deeper here. He’d have to lean all the way out, his face nearly touching the water.
He gripped the rocks tightly with one hand and eased himself out over the pool. He plunged in his other arm almost to the shoulder, grasping below him, raking the surface of the sand. There was something cold and hard and smooth under his fingers. He grabbed it and pulled himself back, cold, dripping. When he saw what was in his hand he nearly dropped it. It was an old scratched ring. It was his grandad’s ring.
Tim looked up at the cave mouth and slowly grinned. He gestured with the ring: thank you.
And something caught his eye in the pool as the sun passed overhead: a brief bright shine, and the suggestion of a face, ugly and distorted and fringed with shaggy hair, laughing on the surface of the water. It was there for a moment and then gone. A reflection, he thought, that’s all it was. But he still wasn’t sure as he pushed himself up and started to make his way back over the beach to his grandad, who was motionless, staring at the waves as they broke, over and over, against the shore.
* * *
There was something in Grandad’s eyes. At first they had lit up. It had been just as Tim had imagined, him holding out the ring and the fissures appearing, deep lines of joy written into the old man’s skin. He hadn’t been able to speak. He had only taken the ring and pushed it, trembling, back onto his finger. Then he had opened and closed his hand before wrapping his thin arms around Tim, and they’d looked at each other and they’d laughed.
It was later that the look appeared. A small frown, and a single line between his eyes. It deepened when he looked at Tim. “Where’d you say you found it?” he asked.