An Alien Rescue

by Gordon Mackay

  “Aha”, he said, “wood for a fire and mussels for a meal tonight.”

  Raising his line of sight, he spotted the red and white Caledonian MacBrayne ferry making its return journey from the island. Some passengers could be seen standing on the upper-decks, with the brightest colours of their fashionable and expensive anoraks standing out against the much darker background. He fancied the idea of visiting the Isle of Raasay, if he ever got the chance, already knowing the fare of his bike would be much less than that of a car. He would check his geology maps to determine whether there might be fossil-bearing strata over on the isle before deciding if he would go. His mind was set on locating fossils and saving them for posterity. He knew their ultimate destruction by wave-action and erosion was assured, with any interesting or rare specimens being lost forever. Unless they were collected and saved by responsible people, such as him, no one would ever know of their once-upon-a-time and brief existence. He wasn’t in the business of making money from the few examples he found and saved, and deplored any who did. He wanted to save them because they represented another time, a period long before humankind’s destructive appearance. Looking about him once again, he began to gather the pieces of wood that could be carried. It quickly dawned on him the tide had turned and was beginning to drown the areas where he had recently strolled. With the shocking realisation of his proposed supper disappearing beneath the water for at least another 12 hours, he scampered back up the slope to his campsite. After dropping the collected wood, he hastily returned to the slippery rocks where the mussels waited for the returning waves and suspended nutrients. While holding an aluminium billycan in one hand, he began to select the largest of the shells he could still reach with the other. He felt he could almost taste the morsels of shellfish already and practically licked his lips at the gourmet thought.

  With enough mussels to fill the can, and enough wood to last for a few days, Scott was confident his stay would be even better than he imagined. His earlier recce had located a small stream nearby, a trickle-sounding flow through dense undergrowth. Whenever he searched for water from a stream he would always remember a few words of wisdom from his late father. There had never been many from him, so the few he heard he tended to remember. His father had fought in Malaya during the insurgency following the cessation of World War II and armed rebels had waged a guerrilla-type war on the western-backed government and British army. His father’s more than picturesque words had left an indelible mark on a young Scott’s mind as he’d conjured a terrible picture of the well-described events.

  As an infantryman in the Scots Guards, he had been soldiering among some Malayan jungle foothills. He was one of a squad who had come across a quickly flowing stream; and with their water bottles almost empty they were filled. After drinking a hearty amount, the squad set off again, continuing their mission. Cautiously heading upstream, always aware of a possible attack, they eventually came across a clearing where a battle had previously taken place. The stinking site was littered with corpses, quickly bloated and blackened by the jungle’s heat and humidity. Severed limbs lay scattered around the blood-soaked site, forced from their owners by explosions and ripping shrapnel. A black haze of flies practically blotted-out the overhead sunshine; while a moving mass of maggots crawled everywhere like a living carpet, giving the unbelievable scene a sense of perpetual motion. The wriggling bugs were dropping off the corpses by the thousand, falling into the fast flowing water as it sped by before being carried downstream. With the fresh memory of drinking from the same water a short way down the gentle-sloping valley, the small group of soldiers emptied their heaving stomach’s, puking everything they had drank and eaten within the last twelve hours or so. “Always check up-stream for some considerable distance before you take water from any flowing source,” was actively encouraged. Scott knew this was a sensible approach to surviving in the wilderness and religiously carried-out that advice. Having checked upstream, with nothing found lying dead or tainting the water in any way, he felt satisfied. Returning to his makeshift home, he filled the pot with fresh island water from the same burn. The picture of dead bodies lying rotting in his memory had never left him in all the years since he’d heard the story. He shuddered at the thought, as always, then forgot it until the next time he needed more water.

  “This is perfect,” he quietly announced to no one in particular. The view was breathtaking and the air was fresh. The sun was still high and the earth was warm. This was his kind of vacation, one where he could indulge himself with his own kind of eccentricity. He had a roof over his head, flimsy though it was, and fresh mussels to dine on. With all that combined with the bottle of cheap wine and cans of beer to wash the entire meal down with, he felt immensely cheerful. If he was still hungry after the succulent seafood dish there were tins of soup and packets of dried pasta as backup, all easily made and quite filling. He did have some fresh water in a large bottle, but that was strictly for drinking only. The mussels would be boiled for at least ten minutes so any bacteria in the water should be neutralised. He wasn’t going to directly drink the water from the stream so he should be all right, he inwardly accepted. The last thing he wanted was to become ill in the middle of nowhere with no one around to help him. He guessed he was already taking some chances by eating the shellfish so why take any more.

  The fire was lit with makeshift kindling. This was made by dropping boulders from shoulder-height on to the larger pieces of driftwood, shattering and snapping them with loud snaps and cracks into smaller shards of splinter. The billycan was evenly balanced on the burning logs and the water soon began to steam. The outside of the aluminium pot turned black with soot, hiding the clean silver colour with something akin to matt. A few clear streaks appeared where boiling water cascaded over the edge, dripping slight rivulets through the blackened mire. There was some scum as the bubbling water produced a creamy coloured froth, occasionally spilling over into the licking flames with a steaming hiss of anger. Scott was confident he would enjoy this dish and the wine would serve to compliment it. “Mmm,” he murmured gently, as he gazed into the smoke as he fancied the sea-fresh smell of the boiling dish. He wished he’d packed some garlic butter with the rest of the cooking equipment, but he couldn’t be expected to take everything for every possible occasion, he reconsidered. The smoke would sometimes steer itself towards him, with Scott altering his position beside the fire to suit. It was only after the sun had begun to reach towards the hilltop’s horizon the dreaded midge insect made an appearance. Scott manoeuvred himself back into a position where he was at the edge of the smoke in the hope it would keep the little biting bleeders at bay. As long as he could keep the fire burning he would have a bite free night, he hoped.

  As he bit into the first cooked mussel, he almost broke a tooth. After venomously spitting out his first mouthful of partially chewed shellfish, he released a loud, “Bloody hell!” He angrily exclaimed with an additional oath. “They’re full of bloody stones!”

  Like a giant inspecting his food before it disappeared into his hungry belly, he turned his attention to the next mussel, pulling it apart even though it burned his fingers. He discovered several small objects; all very silvery and resembling little pearls reflecting what light remained from the quickly fading day. They were all round and shiny, with hints of blues, browns and silver. He realised he couldn’t eat any of this meal from the sea as he failed to remove the little shining orbs by hand. There were far too many of the little devils to extract. He only had so many teeth and wanted to keep what he had. So that was jolly well that! He frustratingly thought. A hungry Scott would have to settle for soup after all. A tin of tasty minestrone was hurriedly opened and unceremoniously positioned onto the still burning embers. With curiosity, he removed some of the small pearl-looking culprits and deposited them into a plastic bag for safekeeping. His plan was to show them to his family and anyone else who showed an interest. He considered, it wouldn’t just be fossils he would take home to impress family and friend
s with.

  The soup was enjoyed with bread and the bottle of wine was drained of its last and final drop. He felt his meal had been sparse but the generous measures of Chardonnay had helped to make the difference. But now, it was well into the evening and he felt tired. The day had been extremely busy and the alcohol was having a most soothing affect. He would need his bed soon, but only after having a wash in the sea. He recalled doing something similar the previous year, but there was a haze across his memory concerning what he actually did. He wasn’t sure how much booze he’d drank while on the west coast of Skye the previous year, but felt sure he hadn’t drank that much. His wife often brought her suspicions out into the open if she considered he’d consumed more than enough alcohol, always suggesting he’d missed-out a day because he’d been absolutely pissed out of his brain. He never chose to comment or answer back as he just couldn’t remember. He would remain silent and his friends would laugh and scoff at the thought, thinking his silence was a confession of guilt. He wasn’t convinced, but continued to wonder if she might at least be correct.

  During the entire day, and a lot more besides, he’d had the feeling there was something more to Skye than just the fossils he wanted. He had no idea what else there might be but decided it was only his imagination playing games; just like the game of his secret book. There had been something lurking at the back of his mind all day, an apparition of sorts. It resembled a shadow so faint he was unsure what it was or what it might mean. As much as he tried, he couldn’t coax the image into clearly showing itself to him. He did sometimes think he could see a woman who appeared tall, dark-haired and slim. He was troubled by this thought as all his past dreams had been of a blonde or fair-haired wench. He sometimes felt his mind was troubled by his imagination, whereupon his waking thoughts could be led by his desires like a thirsty horse to water. He mentally scolded himself for having these silly thoughts, wondering if they were perhaps alcohol induced. He did, however, suspect there might be something going on, some strange force of nature where his mind might leave his body to take the place of another, someone who could leave the confines of planet Earth to explore the cosmos. He also considered he might actually be going off-his-flaming trolley! These strange sensations and feelings of excitement made him think it might be due to being on his favourite island again, a place where he felt at home and with people he considered helpful and friendly. Scott especially enjoyed his annual visits to Skye, in particular the harbour town of Portree. It left him feeling happy and content; being one of the most enjoyable towns he has had the pleasure to visit. The resident fish and chip shop at the harbour was also on his agenda for regular tasty visits.

  Noticing the fire’s dying embers, he chose not to feed the flames any more. What was left of the pile of wood would do another day and another meal. His active mind was still in a state of turmoil and he didn’t know why. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere and camped in a really beautiful and pleasant place, so why should he be feeling so strange? His emotions were as strong as ever and on the increase, almost exponentially. Picking up the empty wine bottle, he studied the label. He put his mixed-up feelings down to being back on the island again, or maybe the 13.5% alcoholic content. Perhaps the smoke in his eyes and lungs could be having an effect, or perhaps some infected midge bites. With a grin, he thought of the bottle’s enjoyed content, which was by-now circulating his body by route of his bloodstream and might be making some blood-sucking bugs feel a bit queasy too. He smiled at the thought of some midges having a hangover or flying into obstacles while pissed out of their tiny skulls. Was he drunk, to the extent his feelings would be in complete disarray? He pondered this question as he ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. “It’s time I had a cold sobering wash,” he slurred, struggling to stand.

  The tide was well up the small cove and the mussels were nowhere to be seen. He imagined the lucky molluscs, those that hadn’t been plucked from their rock-solid sanctity were more than likely whooping it up in the seawater, filtering and devouring whatever morsels they could trap. The unlucky few looked kind of sad as their opened shells and boiled carcasses lay dormant and dead where they had landed after being discarded.

  Scott meandered down the slippery slope towards the water’s edge. He was instantly aware there were no blood-sucking midges. “At last,” he shouted with merriment. “Freedom!” His simple wash had inadvertently turned into a full immersion. He had decided to undress completely, keeping his clothing and boots dry, which was fortunate because he slipped on the rocks and ended up falling head-over-heals into the sea. The wine in his veins and arteries kept him feeling warmer than he should have been. He quickly scrubbed his body and removed the sweat more-so by his washing actions than the effects of soap. He swam out to about twenty metres before the cold began to bite hard and his teeth started to chatter. His frantic attempts to return to dry land made him look like some Charlie Chaplin type character as he hastily waddled out of the sea towards his clothing. He hadn’t taken clean clothes with him so dressed back into what he’d removed. At least they still had some of the warmth he’d left in them, for which he was grateful. He felt clean and was more than ready for a good night’s kip.

  The ash-covered remnants of the fire smouldered gently, cracking every once in a while as he returned to the tent. His wet towel was left dangling from the bike’s handlebars in the hope it would be dry by morning’s first light. He quickly retreated into the safety of his tent, a place where the midges couldn’t gain access. An aerosol can of insect killer was lying just inside the door and was used sparingly. It was for any bugs that might have sneaked in while the tent’s door was open. Feeling freshened, but drowsy, Scott undressed down to his underwear before slipping into his sleeping bag. He quickly succumbed to the day’s tiredness and long drive. The night grew darker and colder without him knowing, his body was sleeping soundly and peacefully, falling into a state of torpor. Dreams were soon to activate his sensory nerves, a reaction that would test his spirit, his courage and his sanity. He saw himself with a long-legged blonde woman with the prettiest of faces. She was standing upright and leaning against a silver wall, beckoning him to come closer with one hand. She didn’t speak or utter any kind of verbal sound, but he could hear her clear and distinct voice deep within his mind. Unconsciousness hit him with suddenness; even dreams couldn’t invade his troubled mind. His rapid-eye-movements had ceased with swiftness while his body went limp. He was unaware he was being moved out of the tent by unseen hands.

  Chapter three

  “I must be dreaming,” he said. “This can’t possibly be happening!”

  Scott was lying flat on his back, looking at a round ceiling. Turning his head slightly he noticed the walls were silver in colour and the floor felt incredibly soft and warm. “What the hell kind of a dream is this?”

  An open doorway presented itself as he sat upright. He looked over both shoulders but there was nothing else to see. Apart from him it was an empty room. With an effort he stood up and was almost sick, his insides wanted to leave his body but he managed to overcome the feeling and contained it. “Phew,” he said with great relief.

  Through tired squinting eyes, he scanned his surroundings. “This is a bit too realistic to be a dream, and why do I feel like I’ve been here before?”

  Standing in the centre of the room, wearing only his underpants, he was about to approach the open doorway when he heard the first faint sounds of approaching footsteps. He stood motionless as he waited expectantly, knowing there was no place to run to or hide, wondering who or what was about to make an entrance. It was a strange sensation for Scott, to be standing in a strange room waiting to see who or what was walking towards the door, when by all accounts he should be fast asleep within his tent.

  A tall, dark and athletic woman appeared. She appeared to be young and very attractive while wearing a blue one-piece suit, just like the one in his dreams.

  “Shit,” he exclaimed with surprise, “you’re supposed to be blon
de!”

  She smiled, replying, “You’re thinking of, Frell.”

  “What? Who the hell is Frell?”

  “Frell, the blonde female in your reoccurring dreams,” she added.

  Scott didn’t know what to say. The unusual name, Frell, had been on the tip of his tongue and he felt certain it meant something to him, something extremely important; he just didn’t know what.

  “Who are you?” Scott asked, doubtfully. He still wasn’t convinced he was actually awake. Before she could reply, he added. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming in my sleep and all this is a figment of my imagination?”

  “In reply to your first question,” she answered, “my name is Belinda. And for your second, no, you are not asleep so you cannot be dreaming.”

  “Belinda? Have we met before? I have a feeling I know you. Nah, it can’t be. I must be dreaming. I’ve never felt so tired in a dream before though.” His face was pale and his eyes looked darker and sunken through lack of sleep. “Phew, I feel so flippin’ tired I couldn’t even shag you if I wanted to.”

  Belinda couldn’t help smiling. She knew what the reference shagging was and found it completely amusing. Scott had the strangest feeling he had met this woman before, but a very long and distant time ago. His mind began to shutdown as he was convinced this was nothing but a dream and the wine he had drunk was wholly responsible. “I’m not touching that blasted wine again. I thought it was cheese that was supposed to give you nightmares!”

  Belinda had to smile again at his latest statement, finding his comments funny. He just wanted to be in his tent, in the quiet darkness near the edge of the sea and fast asleep with the bugs. He felt a bit drunk as he swayed slightly on his feet.

  “We have met before, Scott, about one of your solar years ago.”

  Scott perked up at this revelation. “Hey, hang on one cotton-pickin’-minute. You said about one of my solar years. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”