Foolish.
She walked to the bed. On the table on the left, her side, was a lamp and a book. Also, a tepid half glass of water and her jewellery box, which contained mostly shells. She sat and picked the book up. Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece by H. W. D. Rampling. One of her most treasured tomes. She began to riffle the pages, reading the headings of each chapter. As a child, she would thrill to the excitements and romances of the ancient heroines — Andromeda and Chrysies, Penelope and Helen. The doomed adventures of Antigone, Medea, Cassandra. Tragic lives, tortured women. Anne had always thought them truly beautiful in their suffering.
She flipped the pages back and forth, began to read tales at random. Resting her back against the headboard, her legs drawn up with the book against her knees, Anne plunged into the mythic past. She knew all these stories so well, yet still she read diligently, lost in the magic and the drama.
From the parlour, Bartok became Mahler, became Elgar. Anne continued to read as the light slowly drained from the day, forcing her to turn on the bedside lamp. She revisited the rescue of Persephone, the rape of Europa; mourned the death of Hippolyta and Megara. Caught her breath at the vengeance of Clytemnestra. As she read on, she began to picture herself in some of the adventures, and John, of course, she imagined as the hero.
As Medea, she connived to help him claim the Golden Fleece…
As Perseus, he rescued her from that hideous monster, Ketos…
It was Anne who supplied the cord that lead valiant John deep down and back from the bowels of the tortuous Labyrinth…
And then as Helen, when John’s strong arms enfolded her, took her from her inattentive husband…
Ah…
She quivered, and her breath became ragged. She felt an indelicate heat in her cheeks. The book fell on the floor. There was a dull ache in her belly, or perhaps lower.
Hystera!
Anne stood. The floor felt unsteady and the room began to spin. She stumbled, regained her balance. From down the hall came a harsh, rasping sound — the phonograph needle scraping at the end of a record. But it sounded louder than the music had been, and it took on the sound of a judgemental, disapproving aunt.
tsk… tsk… tsk…
The floor rippled but she stayed on her feet. A movement on the wall caught her eye. Just above her vanity table, the lighthouse stood tall and proud and brilliant white against an azure sky. It was the first painting that she had completed since her arrival, and although she would have never admitted this, she had always felt a certain satisfaction when she looked at it. Now though, she suddenly noticed just how close it was to the edge of the precipice. Too close. The scene lacked the perspective for the depiction of the jagged rocks below, but she had seen them plenty of times, and she could vividly envision them now.
Because the lighthouse was swaying.
It was impossible, yet still it happened. Whatever tremors that were affecting the house had somehow exerted a force upon the painting as well. The lighthouse was tilting. Back and forth. Only a little at first, but as she watched, horrified, it began to tilt closer and closer toward the ocean. She fancied then that she could see a tiny shape upon the balcony. Tossed about, it was a miracle that the figure was not thrown over the rail. Far too distant to make out appearances, but Anne could easily guess who it was.
She stumbled to the vanity table and grabbed the edge. She reached up to the painting, could almost touch it.
The lighthouse gave one final, definitive lurch, and the whole structure collapsed over the edge.
‘Joooohn!’
The house shifted and she was sent skittering across the room. She collided with another wall and was bounced to the floor. Another painting fell with her. This one, she had completed only recently. A darker subject matter, from the Old Testament. Jephthah’s daughter, bewailing her virginity before her sacrifice to the living God. Anne had portrayed her weeping on the ground, grovelling in the dirt, as in the distance her father approached with drawn sword. She had tried to capture his unhesitant stride. She had made his face a mask of resolve.
Just like the lighthouse, this painting too was no longer a static event. Jephthah approached with steady pace. His daughter got to her knees, raised her hands beseechingly. But not to El Shaddai. She was looking straight at Anne. She spoke a quick jumble of choked Hebrew, then began to scream as her killer grasped a handful of her hair and tilted her head back. The bronze blade opened her delicate throat neatly. Blood sprayed. Anne wept.
Something bellowed. Anne looked up. From where she lay, she could see through the door, all the way down the hall. It now seemed improbably long, and at the end of it stood a fuzzy figure. Anne squinted as the figure approached. It was big, almost filling the whole hall space, and it walked on two legs.
She tried to stand, but it felt too great an effort. Barely two heartbeats later, she was tugging at the bed frame, then pulling herself up, and scrambling across the mattress.
She had known the story since childhood, but never had she imagined the monster could be so hideous.
The Minotaur strode into the room. Its eyes were sickly yellow. Its bulbous nostrils flamed with each blast of its furnace breath. Its head was way too large for its body, so it kept it hunched low between its shoulders. A curse from the gods, it existed only to pillage and defile, make a mockery of all bright futures.
Anne made it across the bed and rolled off the other side. In front of her was the open window. Her only chance. She leaped at it, but her strength was not a match for her intent. She managed to get her arms, head, and shoulders through. The rest of her body remained in the room and the greater weight caused her chin to smack hard against the sill. Her tongue caught between her teeth and she tasted iron.
When she felt the big hands on her hips, she knew she was doomed.
The beast dragged her back in, threw her onto the bed. For a moment, it hovered over her, regarding her. It grunted something that was almost words. It reached for her.
Both hands on her shoulders, shaking her. She reached for its head, clawed at its eyes. It slapped her hands away and spoke again. Harsh. A language spoken in the depths of Hades.
‘John… oh, John!’ she screamed.
And she had a sudden vision.
John. Beautiful John. Hearing her call. Dashing down the spiral stairs…
The Minotaur shook her again. More violent this time. She felt hot spittle as it spoke more terrible words. She clawed at its arms. It slapped her face, twice. Hard.
Her head lolled. One calloused hand clamped on her chin, so hard her eyes flew wide and the breath caught in her throat. She stared into its eyes, could not turn her head.
Dashing down the path to her door. John now in a snow white toga. His golden locks flowing long in the breeze…
It pushed its thumb into her mouth, seemed to fish for her tongue. She bit hard and the hand retreated. At that moment, she also lashed out with her knee. It connected significantly. The creature released her and pulled back.
She sprang up. She knew she had only a few precious seconds. She ran around the bed and made a dash for the door. She expected to see John crossing the threshold.
The blow to the small of her back came as a shock, but it lasted only an instant.
#
Robert played his music. He drank his cider, finished the jug. After a short contemplation, he walked to the kitchen and returned with two new bottles. He had forgotten to put them in the fridge. He would cope.
He tried to think about nothing. The music was slow and sombre and he hoped it would conjure a deep grey fog. He hoped the cider would help.
It didn’t.
He was facing the wall. But if he turned his head only slightly, he could look out through the large front window and see the lighthouse. After the rain was done, the whole exterior would need a fresh coat of paint. A big job that. It had last been done under two years ago, mere days after he and Anne had first set foot on the island. The wind and the elements were not kin
d here. It had been a sober introduction to the kind of employment he had found for himself.
But that was fine. All good. He had been raised not to be afraid of hard work. Robert was no weakling. He would not have survived the War if he had been. A bit of sweat, a few aching joints. Good for the soul.
Bartok played to the end. He stood and changed the record. Mahler’s fifth symphony, the fourth movement. He sat and picked up his glass. He thought he might also need to take a look at the lighthouse roof once the rain had stopped. And the water tank. He knew that needed attention.
Then there were the few bits and pieces to be done around their quarters. The tiles, the gutters. Jobs he couldn’t leave to a woman.
Anne.
Robert clicked his tongue.
A fine mess there.
Despite a life of cautious consideration, of taking good, hard looks before he leaped, he had gone for Anne too quick. Big mistake. Those two damn aunts. All their fault. Chatter, chatter in his ear. Kept him blindsided. Anne had been such a timid little thing. Barely a squeak out of her. Given her upbringing, her stony-faced parents, who would have thought she would be so bloody… flighty!
Romantic.
She read too much. Medieval melodramas, fairy tales. Their first flare up had occurred when he told her there was no possibility of bringing so many books with her. All those tears. There had been a few unsettling premonitions before, but that had been the first clear sign that he’d made the wrong choice.
Nothing like Deidre.
No. Life with her had been so much simpler. A good woman. Dependable. Never given to such showy emotions. Few words, she let her deeds speak instead.
Love and affection could be conveyed by the slightest of gestures. If only Anne could be made to understand that.
Deidre, the dear lady.
Big, strong. Gone in an instant. The irony was as crushing as the tragedy. Deidre was a veteran of The Centaur. Dragged from the sea grasping a chunk of floating flotsam. No injuries, beyond a few scrapes, no tears. She had refused to let the Japs beat her.
War over, back together again. The future looked bright. And then the Barton Ferry. A freak accident. Their tenth wedding anniversary.
God could be so cruel.
Robert lifted the phonograph needle before Mahler could reach his fifth movement. He replaced him with Elgar. Serenade for Strings. He raised his glass and found it empty. The first bottle too. He picked up the second. An inner voice suggested moderation but she shrugged it away. He could handle himself. He was in control. Always.
When the night finally came, he didn’t bother to turn on a light. He sat and drank and let Elgar do his worst. He abandoned the glass and took strong pulls from the bottle itself. He began to nod. By the time the record finished, he was snoring quietly.
‘Joooohn!’
He jumped up from his chair. The bottle clattered across the floor. He was groggy, confused.
Anne?
He ran to the hallway entrance. Through the darkness, he could just make out a shape crouching in the bedroom.
On the floor?
‘Anne?’
The shape moved slightly. Robert approached. His wife was kneeling, staring at what appeared to be a framed painting.
Crying?
‘What the hell is going on?’
She looked at him. The horror that showed on her face was unsettling. Her sudden scream came like a stab in his belly.
‘Huh?’
She began to scramble over the bed. He dashed into the room. She was trying to climb out the window. A few big strides and he had reached her. He pulled her back, laid her on the bed.
‘What is all this?’
She was babbling. Wailing like a banshee. He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake.
‘C’mon, pull yourself together, woman. Tell me —’
She clawed at his eyes. The gesture startled him. He slapped her hands away.
‘Stop that! It’s me!’
Night terrors?
‘Stop. It. Come on!’
‘John… oh, John!’
An unpleasant shiver played down Robert’s spine. He shook her again. Harder this time.
‘…the bloody hell? No, it’s me. Me, Robert! What you want with him?’
She raked her nails down his arms. They were blunt, but one nail went deep enough to draw a thin line of blood.
Friggit!
He slapped her on the left cheek, followed it with a quick backhander across the right. The action surprised even him.
‘Snap out of it!’
Hysterical!
He grabbed her chin to stop her head from thrashing. She looked at him wide-eyed.
Her tongue slithered over her lower lip. It was long, too long, and thin. It poked at his wrist and hand. He felt tiny, vaguely unpleasant sensations. He focused. Not a tongue, a serpent, in fact. A vile thing, unctuous and tortuously flexible. A sharp, painful red. Perhaps akin to the tempter of Eden?
Robert pushed it back into her mouth with his thumb. It fought him. He forced it toward the back of her throat. Her teeth clamped down and he drew his hand back. An instant later, he felt the pain in his groin and he hopped back from the bed.
‘Strumpet!’
Then she was up and running for the door. He saw her through a red mist.
‘No chance!’
All Robert needed was one massive step. He lifted his right foot and planted it fair into her back. More a push than a kick. She could not stop the momentum, went headfirst into the hard wood of the door frame.
‘Oh, God.’
She sprawled on the floor and didn’t move. He rolled her over as gently as he could. He winced when he saw how her head lolled. Her neck was at an awkward angle, one side a growing, deepening purple.
‘Awww… Aww, no…’
Her lower jaw hung ajar. It moved further as something came from her mouth. Blood red. A hairless snout. The snake was now huge, with a head bigger than Robert’s fist. Anne’s body trembled as it slithered from her. It rose up and faced him.
‘Christ!’
He rocked back on his arse, scrambled backwards. He managed to gain his feet and dashed down the hall. He almost made the front door before he faulted, almost tripped on the coffee table. He sagged against the lounge and vomited.
The stew bubbled and steamed on part of the rug and the bare floorboards. Peas, beans. Big chunks of carrot. Swirling in a vortex, like they were being stirred in a pot. Pieces of cauliflower, like little brains. One quarter of a potato, looked as big as his big toe. He must have been hungry and just shovelled it down.
Pieces of mushroom. One curled like an ear, others fluttering like broken butterflies trying to take wing. Robert hoped, desperately hoped, they wouldn’t.
He looked back down the hall. The snake was halfway between the bedroom and the parlour. It had stopped following and was swaying. He had a chance and didn’t waste it. He threw open the front door and was out into the night.
He tried to make a straight line toward the lighthouse, but the ground was out of kilter and he kept veering off course. Bright colours and shifting perspectives made navigation near impossible. The air was close and he sweated. He thought of John, and did not know if he wanted to kill him, eat his liver, or plead with him for succour.
It was difficult to think.
He struggled, somehow managed to find the path. Mere metres from the lighthouse entrance, however, he stopped. A movement on his left. Where the rocks ended and the sand began again, there was a shape. Robert felt a strange compulsion.
There was a gentle slope that led down to the water. He walked slowly and steadily. He walked like it was inevitable, like a man to his release or execution.
He reached the sand. The shape was still indistinct.
He walked into the water to his shins. Clearer now. On a rock, one out a little further from the jagged shore. Oblong, shaped like a divan. Washed smooth by the waves.
Yes… of course.
And
there a mermaid, reclining, composed. A buxom girl, heavy bare bosom. Luxuriant ginger locks near down to where her femininity ended. She looked younger than the last time he had seen her, but the last time there had been panic and a desperate scramble. Not a good moment.
Robert said, ‘Deidre.’
The tail swished lazily, seductively so. A deep green with a hint of gold. A sort of come hither attitude to it.
Robert walked in to his knees.
‘Deidre. What?’
She winked at him, gave him a coquettish smile. With an easy movement, she slipped into the water.
‘No, wait!’
She was gone in an instant, but then was back again. Just the head and shoulders. A hand emerged, beckoning.
The water to his waist, his belly, his nipples. To go out much further, he felt, would put him on a committed course. His wet clothes felt confining. A drag. He stayed on his feet but the ocean kept trying to float him.
He thought: Do I really want this?
And he thought: Why do I hesitate?
He looked at her and she looked back, deep into him.
‘Do you promise?’ he asked.
She didn’t speak.
Someone said his name and he looked back at the beach. Anne. Head cocked to her left, cheek flush against her shoulder. Eyes wide and unblinking. The serpent coiled about her slim body. Its head was resting on her right shoulder and it lasciviously licked her kinked neck.
Robert looked back out into the ocean. Deidre’s head and shoulders had floated further away. Then she turned, and with a flick of the tail, she was swimming.
‘No! Deidre, wait!’
He tore the buttons of his shirt. It came off easily. His shoes and trousers were more difficult. His head went under the water a few times. Soon though, they were off and he was free. He pushed himself off the ground, took powerful strokes. Swam like a man possessed. A man with one last chance. He didn’t know if she had taken pity on him, had slowed a little to let him catch up. He just had to hope.
He had not been swimming for a long time. There was strain in some underworked muscles. But that was good. Good for the soul. He went from freestyle to crawl, then flipped over on his back and began to pinwheel his arms. He breathed easier. The beach was now a long way in the distance. He could no longer see Anne, not even just a speck.
Lighthouses Page 7