Sea Change

by Francis Rowan

  John switched the phone off completely. The light of the screen flickered and died. The silence of the night rushed back in to the cliff top.

  Then the phone rang again.

  John turned it over, pushed hard against the back cover, and let the battery fall out onto the soft grass.

  The phone carried on ringing.

  Time to upgrade, John thought. He dropped the phone, and stamped on it until the ringing fractured into an erratic, strangled electronic bleeping, and then finally died completely.

  It’s making me waste time, John thought. And I don’t have much time. He hurried to the orange warning tape, which cracked and fluttered as if in warning. John took a deep breath, and ducked underneath it. The moon gave him enough light to see where he was going, but not much more than that. He walked towards the raw scar in the earth where the cliff had crumbled into the sea. Somewhere in there, he would find the stone. It struck him that he should have brought a spade, a trowel, anything. For all he knew, the stone was buried a metre deep in the earth. For all he knew, he would not be able to get to it at all.

  The sea slammed against the cliff, and John thought that he could feel the ground moving beneath his feet. He stepped gingerly down into the crumbling earth, only a stumble away from where the earth stopped and the air began.

  There was nothing there. Just broken earth, and rocks, and the dizzying black drop. John squatted down, looking for anything that looked different. He couldn't see anything. If he couldn't find the stone, all this would be worthless. Elias would find another way of getting to it first, and then all would be lost.

  He shuffled closer to the edge, and there was a sudden rattle of pebbles, and his foot slipped as the earth moved underneath it. For one brief moment he thought that he was going to follow, but then he managed to scrabble up and onto an outcrop of rock that still seemed firmly rooted in the cliff. He shivered, but it was not with cold.

  John reached out a hand, let his eyes close. Elias had said that he would be able to tell where it was. Call it to him. John concentrated hard, sending all of his thought down to the tips of his fingers. Please, he thought. Please tell me where you are.

  Nothing happened. No visions came into his head. There was just him, and the crumbling earth, and the drop below.

  Then he looked down, and saw something had changed in the darkness. Where the earth had slipped down, just beneath his rocky perch, there was something there. A blacker darkness against the earth, which glinted the moonlight back into the sky.

  That's it, John thought. It's got to be. And he felt scared, because he was sure that it hadn’t been on the surface there before. I’ve called it, he thought. Elias is right. I have something that others don’t. The stone has come to me.

  John cautiously took a step off from the rock, testing the earth in front of him before committing his weight to it. The stone was only inches from the edge. Closer. Closer still. A rattle of pebbles again, the cliff's warning. He left one hand on the rocks, his one connection to the solid stable world. He reached out an arm. Nearly. He didn't want to let go of the rock, so he stretched, stretched, and then the tips of his fingers just curled around the edge of the jet. It was cold, hard, and John's fingers tingled as if he had just touched something charged with electricity. He felt the hairs on his skin lifting.

  Oh, this is it, he thought, this is definitely it. No ordinary stone feels this way. The jet was wide, flat, about the size of a small plate. John slid his front foot a little closer, so he could lever the jet from the earth, and then he had it, pulling it free with one hand, the stone heavy but he had it, nearly there, and then the ground dropped from beneath his feet as the edge of the cliff crumbled into the sea and he started to fall with it.

  John threw himself towards the land, managing to hang on to the jet with one hand, grabbing at the rocks with the other. The earth stopped moving. His feet hung out over emptiness. The sea roared in below, waiting.

  John kicked forward, digging his feet into the new cliff face but as quickly as he tried to step up, the ground crumbled again.

  He could not hang on for long. John could smell the earth, a heavy, wet smell that made him think of mud and worms, a field after heavy rain. The clouds were passing, and he could see the hard diamonds of the stars laid out on the black velvet of the sky. That's beautiful, he thought. Even now, like this. Then a blackness moved in front of the sky and some of the stars went out.

  "Well, well," a rough voice said.

  "Greg," John said. "Please. Help me up from here."

  "A little worm, grovelling around in the dirt," Greg said, and his voice was hard and without pity. "Little worm, little worm, show me what you've dug up."

  "Greg," John said. "Help me up."

  "Give it me," Greg said. "Then I'll help you up."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," John said. Get rescued, then bluff he thought, bluff your way out of this one. Don't let him see the stone, it's just Greg, he's mean, but he's stupid. At worst you'll get a kicking, but then you've put up with those before. Just don’t let him see the stone.

  "Don't lie to me boy," Greg said with a voice that was not his own. “Don’t think that I am this stupid creature, just because I choose to use him," and all the earth under John felt cold, like a grave.

  "It's in my belt," John said. "I can't show it to you, I'll fall."

  "Give it to me," Greg said.

  "Elias, if I try, I'll fall, and it'll fall with me, down into the sea. What are you going to do then, send Greg diving for it?"

  The dark figure hesitated for a moment, and then let out a hiss of disgust. It leant forward and grabbed John's wrist, fingers dug in so tight that John cried out. Then Greg pulled, and John scrabbled with his feet, feeling chunks of rock and earth falling beneath them, and he was nearly up and on the edge of the cliff and then the earth moved beneath him and he was hanging in space as more cliff clattered down towards the sea, and then Greg pulled again, with all his strength, digging his heels into the ground. Then Greg was falling backwards, and John went with him, and he landed hollow on the ground, the jet falling from his hand on to the ground. John could not move, could not do anything but fight to take a breath.

  Greg got to his feet, and took a step closer. John gritted his teeth against the pain, and kicked out at the jet. It rolled away down the slope, bumping and jumping across the tussocks of grass. John lay on the ground, neck craned back, watching it, too exhausted to move and the thing that was both Greg and Elias stood above him, as the stone rolled towards the cliff edge.

  Then it stopped, wobbled, and lay still on the grass, inches from the long drop down. Greg looked down at John, and twisted his mouth into something that was nearly a smile, but not quite.

  “Ah, well. You tried," he said, and then he drew his foot back. John rolled to one side and caught the kick in his shoulder. Pain flashed down his arm and into his neck, but it was better than he would have felt had the kick landed in his face as Elias had intended. He scuttled backwards, hands and feet scrabbling on the grass, trying to move out of reach. He noticed that although Elias had control of Greg's body, and could use all of his strength, Greg moved in a jerky parody of life in the same way that Alan had, as if Elias knew which strings to pull, but not quite in which order he should pull them. I've got a chance, John thought. If I can stay out of his reach, if I can get my breath back, I could get away. He couldn't stop me—not as Greg, anyway. He knew though, that if Greg got close enough to land another kick where he wanted to, that it would be the end of it, for he would not be able to run anywhere.

  Greg hesitated, looking first at John and then at the grass where the stone lay, hidden now. He lifted a hand and pointed it at John and said, "Stay there", and then shuffled through the grass. Fall off, John thought, slip and fall, but Greg did not, just lurched slowly along, closer to the stone. John struggled to his feet. As he pushed himself up off the ground he felt the stabbing pain through his shoulder again, and he nearly fell down, but h
e managed to keep his footing, standing half-crouched, still desperate to get air back into his lungs, every breath feeling as if he were fighting against a great weight that had been placed upon his chest. He could stand, but he could not run. Breathe, he thought to himself, breathe slow and this will pass and then you will be able to run. Breathe and you might be able to run before he reaches you. Run now, and you'll last ten steps and fall over and no matter how slow and awkward he is, you won’t get away from him a second time. But then if he has the jet, what does running away matter anyway?

  Greg grunted and bent down. When he stood up he had the stone in his hands, and his eyes were alight with something that was not Greg, never was Greg. He made a sound like a cat mewing and then sighed, a deep long sigh like the wind.

  "Mine," Elias said. "Mine," and his hands began to shake where he gripped the jet, and then his arms, as if an electrical charge was surging through him. The darkness around him thickened and gathered. There was a sound like rushing water, as if the sea had boiled up and was going to surge in over the top of the cliffs, foam racing across the land, and there was a strong metallic smell, like copper or blood.

  "Mine," Elias said, and the darkness seemed to be flowing in waves into him, sucking substance from the world. Around John, things faded. The grass became nothing more than a hazy wash around their feet, and up above him, one by one, the stars were hidden. John felt himself becoming less. He held a hand up in front of him and thought that he could see through it, as if it were made of gauze. I've failed, he thought, but the thought did not seem important any more, no thought seemed important any more, I am not important any more he thought, me, who used to be John but am now just—well now I am just tired, so tired, but soon I shall no longer even be that and he tried to take one more breath, just for old time's sake, to taste the cool air of the night and the smell of the wet grass and the salt of the sea one more time, and then a shaky voice said, "Greg Downing, look at me. Look at me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The terrible fading drew back. John became himself again. He could see Greg standing, holding the stone, his body still shaking.

  "Greg Downing," Sal said. "It's me." She was standing where the path petered out into the short grass of the cliff top. "Fight him, Greg. You're being used. I know the real Greg, and I know that you're better than this. When he's used you, he'll throw you away Greg, he'll destroy you. Fight him, Greg. For me."

  "I'll destroy you, girl," Elias spat, but the words came out slow and stuttering, as if the mouth he spoke with was fighting against him. "You're too late. Feel it." He gestured, and again the world began to fade. "I've held this stone for only seconds, and it has already given me so much. Look. See. Fear me.” Again he closed both hands around the stone, and the darkness started to reach out, towards Sal, towards John.

  Then a small shape ran from the darkness, and Simon hit Greg in a tangle of arms and legs, knocking him staggering forward. The jet fell from Greg's hands and rolled again across the grass. Like elastic snapping, the world jerked back into place. John could breathe again. He could see Greg already starting to lift himself from the ground.

  "Run," John shouted, and he raced forward, past Greg, to where the stone had fallen. "Go, I'll catch you. We've got to get to Hob's Hole, I've got to get rid of this."

  Simon hesitated, but Sal came tearing past, grabbing him by the arm. He turned to followed her, but then broke away, ran back a few steps and kicked at Greg, making him collapse back down onto the ground. He shaped to do it one more time, but then John shouted and pointed, and Simon turned and saw the shadows rising from the grass, a mist that had a darkness at its heart and that turned and twisted and started to coalesce into shapes that did not quite make sense.

  "He's left him," John shouted. “He’s not in Greg any more. Run, Si. Now! Don't wait for me."

  Simon looked in fear at the rising mist, but stood his ground, waiting for John. A few metres beyond him Sal had skidded to a halt, and she too waited.

  "Stubborn sods," John said, and he slipped and slid his way to within a step of the cliff edge, and then his foot hit something hard, and there was the stone. He stooped and grabbed it, nearly dropped it again because he thought that it was burning hot, then realised that it was not heat, it was cold. John snatched it up, held it to his body with one arm, and fingers of ice immediately penetrated his coat, his shirt. The mist trickled towards him and he heard a vicious hissing voice that saying words he did not know, in a language that he did not recognise.

  John froze for a moment, and the world stopped and slowed down around him. He felt very tired. It would be so easy to lie down, on the soft grass. To sleep.

  "No," he said, and it was an effort to get the words out, but as soon as he did his fugue was broken, and he said, "Right, Hob's Hole. Let's move it. Now."

  Sal said, "Oh no, oh no," and didn't move.

  "What?" John said, "Come on."

  "Hob's Hole," she said.

  "What about it?" But as soon as John spoke he knew, remembering his struggle an hour back, and Simon realised too.

  "Tide's in. We'll never get to it."

  John looked back over his shoulder. The bank of mist was rising, and the shadows were surging within it. One looked like a man, but John couldn't see it properly, and anyway it was too tall, and what he thought were limbs moved in a way that arms and legs do not. The mist began to roll towards them.

  "We've got to run anyway," John said. But I don't know where, he thought.

  "The harbour," Sal said.

  A finger of mist reached out towards John. "Now!" he shouted. “Run!” They began to sprint down the path towards the village, and the mist behind them rolled and began to move, the way that clouds streaked across the sky when there were strong winds, high up.

  John ran, staring ahead at what the faint moonlight let him see of the path. It was rutted and jutting with stones, and John knew that if he tripped, if any of them tripped, the mist would be on them, and everything would be finished.

  Simon shouted something incoherent, and ran even faster. John didn't need to wonder what had prompted it. He had heard the sounds from the mist too, a distant screaming that sounded like an animal in pain, and then a low howl that sounded like nothing he had ever heard before. They were keeping ahead of it, but only just, and they would not be able to keep up this pace for long.

  "Why...harbour?" he shouted in a ragged voice to Sal who was running alongside him. "Need...Hob's."

  "Davey's boat," she panted back. "I'm taking us out."

  Then there was no more time to talk, no more breath to talk, just the panicking run down the cliff path towards the sleeping red roofs of the village, with the cold darkness at their backs and a constant chaos of unearthly noise coming from what was within it. Then Simon stumbled in front of them, just for a moment before he regained his footing, but John had already swerved to avoid him and his foot hit a rock he hadn’t seen, and he was in the air, and then on the ground, winded by the fall, Sal and Simon skidding to a halt just ahead of him as they realised, their faces full of concern as they looked back, and then terror when they saw what was just behind them.

  John tried to shout to them to leave him, to run, but he didn’t have the breath, and the mist rolled down towards him and a shadow within it took shape. The shape was squat, and powerful, and scuttling, and as the mist neared John, who was trying to scrabble to his feet, the shape began to rear up.

  Then something streaked past John from behind, a black blur of fur and paws and aggression that plunged straight into the mist with a growl that seemed to come from deep within the earth. The dog disappeared into the mist and the shape staggered back, howling.

  John's chest heaved and suddenly he was drinking in the cool air, and he got to his feet.

  "Come on," Sal shouted, but John held on for a moment, staring into the wall of mist behind them, and then the dog exploded from it, racing past him, one side of its head bloody and tattered. It shot past John, heading do
wn the path, then stopped just beyond Simon and Sal, barking frantically.

  "Follow it," John shouted. "Follow it."

  And they began to run again, the mist and what moved and wailed within it always hard at their heels. The dog raced in front, leading them safely down the path until they were off the cliff and into the village. They ran down the street, footsteps echoing off the walls, running through the night in a village that seemed deserted, lost to the world that they all knew. The mist chased them through the streets, tendrils of smoke reaching for them from the alleys and over the roofs of houses, long thin fingers twisting, grabbing. It moved closer to them as they slowed, running out of breath, and John could feel it just behind him as he ran, a cold emptiness as if there was nothing behind him at all, not the mist, not the cliff, not the earth at all just a dizzying drop into a frozen infinity. They were too slow. It was too quick. At least they had tried their best, John thought. The mist drew closer to them.

  The dog skidded and turned, its claws skittering on the concrete.

  "No," John shouted, but the dog ran past him again, back into the mist, which stopped its inexorable roll and exploded in a flurry of movement and noise. The three kept running, getting as far ahead as they could before the thing that pursued them started to move again.

  This time, the dog did not reappear, and John felt a stab of sadness inside him that he knew he would never lose. His throat burnt raw from the cold air, but still he sucked it in, ignored the stitch in his side, kept on running, holding the stone close to his body. It felt like ice through his t-shirt, but at the same time burning hot, as if it would leave a mark against his skin that would never go away.

  They skidded around the corner at the bottom of the street and came out by the harbour. The sea slapped fretfully against the land, and the strengthening wind whipped the tops off the waves and threw it into their faces.