He hears the pessimism in his friend’s voice, knows that Mark is expecting him to decline the invitation. He always does, this is the routine he has now fallen into. He simultaneously hates Mark for bothering him and loves him for caring enough to persist with his invitations.
“Well, I, err…”
“Come on, Dave.” There’s a hint of irritation in his voice now. No more than to be expected. “It’s no big deal, just a few drinks, some food. It’ll be a laugh!”
And, for a moment, he is almost swayed—if only through a sense of guilt—to just say yes. Then again, why not allow himself a bit of normality? Why keep punishing himself like this?
Something nags at him though, an important piece of information hidden away in the recesses of his subconscious. The date…
“Friday? That’s the twelfth, yeah?”
“Errr…yes, that’s the twelfth. Is that significant? Usually it’s Friday the thirteenth you have to watch out for you know…”
“No, no,” he feels the relief flooding his body, washing through it. He has found a reason to turn down the invitation. “It’s just that it’s the spring tide that night.”
The pause as Mark tries to comprehend the meaning of what he has just heard seems to stretch for an eternity. Eventually he chuckles, the sound tinny, rasping down the telephone line.
“And that’s relevant because…?”
Because she’s now truly a creature of water, because the ebb and flow of the ocean has become her heartbeat, because the crashing of waves against the shore is her passion, the tumbling of pebbles on the beach in the wake of the retreating waves her whispered entreaties…
Because water is her power, her strength and…
“Dave! Dave, you still there?”
He gives no answer, could never explain away his words, his thoughts, his understanding to his friend. This is my truth, he thinks, not yours…
“Dave! What’s going on mate? What’s wrong—I don’t…”
He hangs up, brings the conversation to an abrupt end. Replacing the phone in its cradle he walks, as if in a daze, back into the kitchen. The phone starts ringing again. He pays it no heed, instead continues walking towards the cooker where he sees the white froth of bubbles slowly spill out over the top of the pan to drip onto the hob beneath, water turning to steam with a hiss, the clouds dispersing to tendrils which hover for scant seconds before disappearing completely like half-glimpsed ghosts. The ghosts of water.
“We don’t really see each other anymore,” she says.
“What do you mean?” you ask. “We see each other all the time.”
“No, I don’t mean that. We’re either apart from each other or, when we’re together, we’re like one person, we know each other so intimately. Oh, I don’t know, I’m not explaining this very well. We don’t observe each other anymore. I think we look at other people, strangers, more intently than we do each other…”
“But that’s a good thing,” you interrupt. “It’s great that we’re so comfortable with each other…”
“Yes, yes it is, but wouldn’t it be something special to recapture that initial thrill, the first time you see someone you’re attracted to; look at the way they hold themselves, the way they move, the way they interact with the world.”
“It’s an interesting concept,” you say, still unsure as to where exactly this conversation is going. “So, what’re we going to do about it?”
And so you make plans, arranging to go to the same café but arrive separately and sit at different tables. You are both aware that the other is there but act as if alone, all the time casting glances at the other, observing from afar, truly seeing each other.
Once or twice your eyes meet, the two of you caught in simultaneous surveillance, each time the contact is ended immediately by a look away, a sudden profound interest in the food on the table in front of you. You are the first to leave, unable to cope with the erotic charge coursing through your body. The temptation is there to stop at her table on the way out, to take her hand, kiss her, embrace her, to revel in the shock and surprise of the other diners…
But you walk straight past her, out into the street without even a glance.
Your lovemaking that night is the most intense either of you has ever experienced.
The following morning, as the first gray light of dawn creeps through the window you exchange whispered declarations, voices husky, the words so softly spoken they are almost lost amidst the sound of the sea crashing against land far below you.
“I love you…”
“I love you…”
“Forever…”
He sits on the beach, the small stretch of sand between the outcroppings of rocks and the otherwise pebbled shore. Behind him the dunes throw a barrier across the path that winds its way up the cliffs to his house.
The sound of the sea, of the waves breaking softly against the sand, is a soothing one in the twilight which surrounds him. The day which is now drawing to a close is one which has been lost to him. Has he been here since the morning? He cannot remember but his feelings at this realisation are not those of worry, of concern that he is losing his mind, rather they bring a sense of contentment, that nothing matters, that this is normal.
Except, of course…
He carries his loss like a stone weight deep within him, a physical thing that lies inside, weighing him down. It is the same sensation as the longing he had felt in the early days but—whereas he could cope with that earlier situation because of the knowledge that the separation, the missing of her would be a temporary thing…he is afforded no such luxury now.
Absent-mindedly, he trails his fingers through the damp sand, leaves parallel grooves in the smooth surface. Water seeps into them from the saturated ground, welling up like tears in eyes.
The moon appears on the distant horizon, emerging from the bank of clouds that have thus far hidden its rising. The sun is only recently set and the full moon reflects its dying light, a bright orange orb floating above the sea, its reflection split into a multitude of fragments which ripple and morph on the ever-moving surface of the water.
This, the spot where she walked into the sea, out of his life—forever. This, the spot where she scrawled the words in the sand that would be his last memory of her, the inscription itself now a memory too, the words long gone, taken away by the tide just as she herself had been.
I love you, she had written, forever.
You awaken to bright sunshine, shield your eyes against the intensity of the light, made even brighter by the white curtains which slowly sway from side to side in response to the breeze which blows through the open window.
You are alone in bed, Sarah is gone, already risen. Usually a deep sleeper, of late she has found it hard to make it through the night without waking. And with that thought the day becomes that much darker, the unavoidable reality of her situation—of your—situation crowds out every other thought, the pall that will lie over the day already manifest.
You rise, pull on your dressing gown and make your way downstairs.
She lies on the floor, just visible beyond the blanket box that serves as a coffee table. You run to her, cradle her in your arms, fearing that the worst has happened, that the inevitable has arrived ahead of schedule, that she is gone.
As you hold her you feel how limp her body is, the only movement the fluttering of her chest as her lungs seek desperately to pull oxygen into her unresponsive body.
“Wake up!” The force and urgency of your words hidden in the whisper which is all your terrified state allows you.
And then a movement. Her eyes flicker open, and she stares at you, eyes boring deep into your soul. Awareness slowly fills those pale eyes with fear and you watch as tears well up in them to spill over and run down her cheek.
“I’m sorry…,” she says, the words barely audible but strong enough to break your heart so that all you can do is hold her tighter still, to tell her, “It’s okay”—hating yourself for the lie—and
to kiss away her tears, the taste of them salty, like brine, like the sea.
He awakens, finds himself sprawled on the wet sand and shivers as the coldness hits him. Water laps at his feet, his boots already soaked. Cursing, he drags himself to his feet but stops, still kneeling, as he sees the word written in the sand.
Forever.
The word sends a shiver through him, this time far stronger than those the cold which has seeped into his bones has brought about. At the sight of it, memories flood back, memories of the morning when he’d run down to the beach to find that devastating message and had realised that the woman he loved had left him, had somehow found the strength to make her way down here, to write the words in the sand and then…
“I can’t live like this,” she’d said on so many occasions, “not that you can call this a life…” And, selfishly, he’d always talked her out of doing anything…drastic, unable to contemplate life without her. Willing to let her suffer to avoid having to do so himself, waiting for the day when he would find her lying still for the last time. The tears he’d cried that day when she had put an end to everything, to her—their—suffering, had not just been for the loss of the woman he loved, but also for the fear that her last feeling would have been one of guilt, for going against his wishes…
“I’m sorry,” he says and gets to his feet, tears prickling at his eyes.
It is as he rises, and steadies himself on legs stiff from cold, that he sees the other words in the sand.
Three words again but different from last time. Whereas before the message to him had been a statement, a confirmation—a condolence perhaps, this time they are a request. Not “I love you” this time but “Be with me.”
A giddiness rushes through him, threatens to topple him to the sand, and he breathes deeply to calm the tremors which course through his body. Memories of that night, when she had spoken these same words, had awoken him with them, come to him, and the shaking of his body increases. Tears well once more in his eyes and his hands are cold against his cheeks as he wipes them away.
“Be with me…”
The shock of hearing the words spoken, even as he reads them again, releases a surge of adrenalin which spreads slowly from the small of his back, creeps along his spine.
Waves crash, the wind whispers through the marram grass. Perhaps he has misheard, interpreted those everyday sounds as something he so desperately wants to hear. But the words in the sand…
“Be with me…”
He turns, feet scraping divots into the sand which immediately fill with water. Turns to look out across the water, towards the sound of the voice. Her voice.
The sea glows with eerie phosphorescence, the white tops of the small waves illuminated by the distant moon. Spray blown by the breeze which accompanies the incoming tide wets his face, but he makes no move to wipe it away, intent as he is on staring out to sea, to see…her.
He chokes back a sob, raises a hand to bite the knuckle of his index finger. “Sarah…”
She is there. He can see her now. Bathed in her own luminescence she stands in the water, arms outstretched towards him. Beseeching him.
“Be with me…”
For a moment he cannot move. But only for a moment because then he is walking forwards, towards the water, towards her. Even as the water splashes over his feet, his gaze remains fixed upon her, the glowing shape that is his one true love, waiting for him to join her.
The water is up to his knees before he feels the true coldness of it. As he walks, so it resists him, a physical barrier to prevent him from reaching her. He hates it; for taking her and now for impeding his path back to her.
Be with me…
The words sound as if they have come from inside his own head but he ignores this for he can still see her, ahead of him, in the water.
He reaches out his own arms, ready to embrace her. The water now up to his waist, pushing against him, pushing him back.
She smiles.
Be with me…
Through his tears he returns the smile. His heart beats so fast now because of the love which fills it.
Forever…
RIVER WATCH
by Bruce Boston
The river arrived in early spring. Only a thin trickle at first, meandering across the plains from the northern hills, it chose a course along a gully on the town’s eastern front.
Ours was a dry and dusty land. There was little that grew or thrived here, little to recommend it beyond its quiet isolation. Founded in the middle of nowhere for no reason anyone could remember, ours was a town that seemed destined to die likewise, a way station on the way to nothing in particular.
The river changed all of that. The trickle grew to a rivulet and then a stream and finally, cutting its own channel in the dusty earth, it took on sufficient depth and breadth so that it could be dubbed a river proper. And a fine one at that.
The waters of the river were clear and pure, a deep blue that reflected the open sky above. On its banks where only hardy patches of scrub grass once survived, rushes grew in profusion and wildflowers bloomed, filling our landscape with splashes of color.
Fishermen were the first to explore the river. Although they had never fished before, for our town knew nothing of such matters, their catches proved plentiful. Trout and salmon and other fish we had yet to learn the names of graced our plates and became specials in the local restaurants.
Young children began to play along the edge of the river and wade in its shallows. Older children and some adults ventured beyond the shoreline to swim in its cool waters and explore their limpid depths.
Boats began to ply the river, not only pleasure craft but those providing travel or commerce. Where the waters had pooled to form a natural harbor, a pier was constructed for the boats to dock. Strangers arrived from faraway cities we had heard of yet few had visited.
The town changed and developed a different atmosphere. Those who were the first to prosper from the river began to take on airs and dress in finery. And the rest of us, prospering in turn, soon followed their example.
There was talk of building a bridge across the river so the town could be extended. Some suggested a railroad that would increase commerce by carrying goods to and from the river. A resort complex that could summon a healthy tourist trade was proposed. Our mayor appointed several committees to investigate such projects.
Then both the river and its effect upon our world began to change. Like a confidence man who at first convinces you that all is well with his easy good looks and charming smile, and only gradually reveals the duplicity in his character, the river began to show its darker side.
Some discovered too late that the currents of the river could become inexplicably swift and often concealed treacherous undertows. Naturally there were drownings. A pregnant woman miscarried while bathing in the river and blamed it for her misfortune, claiming the waters had sucked away her unborn child. Though there may have been little credence to such a charge, other complaints followed, blaming the river for rashes and headaches, fevers and chills. And it was true that in the riverside rushes mosquitoes and other insects bred that could transmit disease.
Concerned citizens rightly observed that the strangers the river had carried here and who now lived among us, with their so-called modern ways, were a pernicious influence on the public consciousness. A League of Decency was founded to stem such corruption and protect the morals of our youth.
When the winter rains came, the river exhibited a fierceness we had never anticipated. The number of drownings increased greatly. Bodies washed ashore, white and bloated, some of them so waterlogged and transfigured by death they could not be identified.
In one storm that lasted three days the river raged beyond its banks, destroying structures that had stood for decades, wiping out entire families, leaving others homeless and businesses in ruins. Boats broke loose from their moorings and floated downstream. Most of the pier was washed away and had to be rebuilt at considerable expense to the
public coffers.
The days on which the river appeared clear and blue became the exception rather than the rule. For the most part, its surface had taken on a sickly greenish hue, murky and impenetrable. Self-styled scientists, since our town boasted few of real learning, tested the waters of the river and the fish that inhabited it. They reported high levels of toxins in certain samples, chemicals that could be dangerous if not downright poisonous.
No one entered the river any longer without a boat. Parents forbade their children to play beside its shores. Those who had once blessed the river as our salvation began to curse it with equal fervor as a pernicious force that had invaded our lives.
When spring returned the rains deserted us and a sudden drought visited the land. It became very hot. The sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky day after day with no relief in sight.
The borders of the river began to retreat, leaving a residue of muddy sludge in their place. The vegetation that had sprung up along its banks withered and disappeared. Our river was reduced to a stream, then a rivulet, and finally it died altogether. Or at least traveled somewhere else.
And though the river is gone, it has left a heritage behind. The town no longer prospers and now we resent our deprivations in a way that never mattered before. Now there are the dangerous ones among us—some of them strangers who have been abandoned here, some our very own—who wander across the new desert of the empty riverbed, strewn with the debris of rotting boats and the shattered skeletons of both humans and fish. They have set up makeshift camps where the waters once flowed. They live by any means they can, preying upon the rest of us, stealing, raping, and killing at random. By night their fires can be seen flickering in the barren wilderness. Their harsh voices carry unintelligibly across the sands.
And then there are others, dangerous in their own way, who contend the river has not finished with us, that it is biding its time and will return once it has rested. They speak of prophetic visions and describe how the river’s currents visit them in their dreams and nightmares, full of fine promises and vile threats yet to be delivered.
Death by Water Page 43