When he had finished, he took a photograph of his family out of his wallet and stared at their faces. He then put his Tilley hat back on and walked out of the bar. Dark churning skies loomed ominously above his head, but the haar had been lifted by the wind. Shuffling along the rain soaked street, he could hear and smell the sea so he knew he was getting closer to the docks. It invigorated him. Suddenly, a man and a woman approached from each side. The woman took him forcibly by the arm and said,
“You made quite a spectacle of yourself back there Professor Burke. I would have expected a little bit more discretion from someone who had worked for the Government. My name is Lúthien and this is my colleague Inwë. We would like you to come with us, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 14: Bull’s nightmare.
Andrew abandoned his attempts to catch a fish for dinner. In the moonlight he ravelled up his fishing tackle, lay back against one of the undamaged pontoons and enjoyed the stars shining in a rare clear sky. He had explained to Bull that in order to cast further out to sea, he needed the canopy to be lowered, but secretly he knew this was not the case, and that the claustrophobic conditions and the smell of Malcolm’s putrefying wound was getting the better of him. He tilted his head back and adjusted his ears to the rhythm of the palpitating sea. To settle his nerves, he poured himself half a tennis ball of Talisker malt whisky and sipped it.
He felt a strong wind and ocean current drag and buffet the vessel simultaneously. The change of pace of the raft disturbed him at first and kept him from sleep, but then he felt the enlivening feeling like he was on a canoe, when it picks up speed, heading down river towards the rapids. The elements were working in harmony, he thought, colluding to draw them closer to their destiny. His eyes settle on the damaged pontoon. He considered events from earlier in the day and how he had reacted. Andrew contemplated their perilous situation but concluded that at least they were still alive. They had shelter, drinking water since the morning deluge of rain, and were now heading in a delineated direction. Continuing to drift aimlessly would have reduced any hope of finding land. They needed to cross a shipping lane. It was their only realistic chance of survival. He was still concerned by their lack of food and Malcolm’s deteriorating condition. The perpetual wetness was once a minor irritation but the blisters on his skin had developed into sores. But above all, the damage to the raft was his major worry. Bull’s emergency patch-up job was keeping them afloat for now, but he was fearful of falling asleep and waking up to find they were sinking.
Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his wet seat. Clouds were reforming in the sky and he had not expected the temperature to drop so quickly. When the moon disappeared, all around him hung the gloom, empty and daunting. Moreover, he was becoming increasingly distracted by the sound of Bull’s somniloquy. His nocturnal mutterings made no sense but the tone and disturbed nature of his words put a shiver down his spine. As the night drew on Bull began to scream out - a high pitched wail, followed by a bout of violent head twitching and leg thrashing. Andrew decided the time was right to rouse him from his nightmare. He swallowed more of the Talisker to settle his nerves and then approached him.
He knelt over Bull and slapped him on the face. He said, “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.” Bull was dazed. He struggled to regulate his breathing and whimpered for a few moments. He gasped, “Saffron? Where am I? It’s so cold.” Andrew slapped his face once more, harder this time and enjoying the sensation, he said,
“You’re having a nightmare.” Bull’s eyelids hung like two sacks of coal and his voice slurred like a drunk. He mumbled,
“I just had a nightmare that’s all. I dreamt I was with Saffron.”
“Was she your partner? Your wife? Your sister?”
“She was pregnant but it wasn’t my baby. It was Maurice’s child.”
“So not your sister, although if you were from Ayrshire…” Bull ignored Andrew’s feeble joke. He spoke as if in a trance. He tried to raise his hands to his head but his arms were weak and unable to complete the move. They wilted by his side. Andrew adjusted Bull’s woollen bobble hat and attempted to feign interest. Bull said,
“I’m pathetic. I couldn’t even take care of a terrapin.” Andrew raised his hand to slap Bull’s face again, but instead he said,
“Sorry, but I’m not really following any of this. Can’t it wait until the morning?” Bull’s breathing was becoming slower but heavier. Andrew placed the Talisker under Bull’s bottom lip and said, “This will help you sleep.” Sipping the whisky Bull said,
“We were back on the narrowboat, but all was not right. There were other forces at work. Things you couldn’t see, some that you could.” Andrew looked around as if pleading with Malcolm for support. “Well, you’re alright now. You’re safe in a half inflated raft, floating in the North Atlantic wind and pursued by sea creatures. It’s nothing that a good sleep won’t sort.”
“I’m ok now. I just feel a bit groggy that’s all, thanks for asking.” Andrew looked around in confusion to see if there was someone else on the raft apart from Malcolm. Bull eyes turned to white once more.
Bull feebly grabbed hold of Andrew’s sleeve. His words were slurred. He said, “It was mouldy and damp. The floor was wet. It smelled of rotting flesh. The boat was also decomposing. Everywhere was infested with tiny larvae which sprouted out of the woodwork during the night, when I was asleep, they would swarming all over my face, suffocating me and crawling into every orifice of my paralysed body.” Andrew rolled his eyes in a tedious manner. He yawned,
“Well these narrowboats are all very fashionable these days but many do carry wood boring infestations, it has to be said. There’s no chance of that happening on this raft. It’s made of plastic but it is still prone to the odd attack from the odd clumsy Englishman.”
Andrew sat back against the pontoon and stretched his legs out. In the darkness he could barely make out Bull’s form until the moon reappeared and then he could see him, cowering in the wind and rocking in time with the raft. Andrew sat back against the pontoon. He continued listening to Bull’s account of his nightmare. Bull said,
“Saffron went into labour. I tried to call an ambulance, but the line was dead. I had to deliver the baby myself. I tried to boil water but when I turned on the taps, the water was green. I used a bowl of Scotch to sterilise everything. The towels were wet. Covered in slime. Saffron cried. An agonizing scream. She held onto my wrist and twisted the skin. I couldn’t stand the pain. I pulled back my hand and she pushed me away. She delivered the baby herself. The child lay there, silent and still. Matted in blood and mucus.”
“All babies are born into the world like that,” muttered Andrew.
“It was covered in thick black hair. It was a hideous creature.” Andrew tried to smile. He said,
“Are you sure the mother is not from Ayrshire?”
“Saffron began breast feeding it. I asked her to stop. She started mocking me, laughing at me. The creature stopped feeding and turned to face me. It pointed a twisted finger at me. It was old and wrinkled. It spoke in a language I couldn’t understand.”
“Most likely standard English, I would imagine.”
Bull began to rock back and forth in a metronomic motion. Andrew gazed to the heavens, as if seeking divine intervention. The moon slipped behind a band of cloud, plunging them into complete darkness. Andrew could only just hear Bull’s voice above the sound of the waves slapping against the raft. Bull said,
“The wind began to howl. The narrowboat started to shake. A tremor ran the length of it. The boat crumbled into the canal. I tried to piece it together but I failed. The water started to rise. It was around my waist and then my neck. I was under the water. The boat sunk further and further down into the deep. There were boxes, and furniture blocking my way out. At last I found an opening and floated to the surface. I swam around searching for Saffron, but I couldn’t find her. It was so dark. The street lights were out. And then a bolt of lightning lit up the sky and I saw her. She and
the monkey child were walking along the moorings. They were leaving me alone in the canal. I screamed out, but she didn’t look back. Someone was waiting for her under the bridge, and then disappeared into the darkness. I floated, treading water and then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a dense blanket of mist rolling on top of the water. As it crept closer, I could see thousands of small bodies writhing inside it. And then it engulfed me. I was blinded by the mist. It stung my eyes. I could feel their presence around me. I could feel their cold breath on my skin. I tried to shout but tiny hands stretching out to cover my mouth.”
Andrew nodded like an insincere psychiatrist chasing the clock down until it reached the end of the session and he would no longer have to listen to the monotone voice in the darkness. The wind chilled the nape of his neck. Bull seemed almost invisible now. He wanted him to stop talking. He wanted to erect the canopy back into position, but he felt stiff and immobile. It would have to wait until first light, he thought. Bull continued to talk, in-between taking deep breaths and sips of water. He continued, “I managed to peel their emaciated hands from my mouth. I wanted to swim but I couldn’t get my muscles to work, and then a red light appeared from underneath, illuminating thousands of naked bodies. They swam around me, and below, in the deep, as far as my eyes could see. They carried me under the surface, wailing and crying out, saying they were the drowned children of the world. They were the victims of the floods, the abandoned, and the washed away. They pulled at my limbs, tore my clothes, ripped into my skin with their fingernails. They drew blood. It seemed to excite them. I was paralysed and helpless. They dragged me further down. One grabbed my head, turning my face towards hers, forcing me to look into her dead black eyes. I saw children struggling in a quagmire of mud, made to work while fat pigs in suits watched them from the safety of a hill. Then a loud muffled bellow sounded way down deep in the bowels of the earth. The children stopped. Some began to howl. Some became excited. The waters began to boil and one whispered in my ear that their lot was one of everlasting agony and that they said I was to meet him.”
Andrew’s bottom lip started to tremble in fear. He could only make out white open eyes in the darkness, when Bull’s head tipped back.
“Him?” said Andrew, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. Bull’s eyelids started to close over. His speech was now ponderous and malevolent. He mumbled,
“The Walker has crossed the ninth wave. He’s coming for a mortal. You can’t escape him. Once he’s left the Otherworld and crossed the ninth wave, he will find you. There is no flight. The Walker is abroad. The Walker is abroad.” Andrew shivered. He pulled the collar of his shirt up to cover his neck and said,
“The Otherworld? The Ninth Wave? How do you know about that?” Andrew drew his head closer as if trying to collect the last few garbled words from a dying man, but Bull had fallen back to sleep. Andrew normally dismissed ancient myths as superstition and the antithesis of the Presbyterian upbringing that had been bestowed upon him. He consoled himself that his church spoke of a vengeful God, but also a forgiving one. He had always believed in spiritual salvation in the afterlife, but he could not marry the beguiling concept of his soul existing in a celestial eternity, with the philosophy of the paranormal. He had been brought up by his father to dismiss such mystical notions as superstitious nonsense, and challenge his grandmother’s fables, but there always remained a residual doubt.
Andrew sat in silence, wondering if it was by chance or design that Bull also knew of this legend. He was overcome with an unearthly, disturbing feeling. He became infected with a sensation that someone or something was staring at him from out in the sea and now from inside the raft. Once more he wished he had put the canopy up before the darkness settled. He became aware of the sound and sensation of his heart pounding in his chest. His lips were dry and blistered from the constant exposure to the salt laden ocean winds, and his ears were attentive to every sound around him. Andrew could stand the withering thirst no longer. He had left the fresh water by Bull’s side. In the pitch darkness he stretched out a groping hand to clutch the rain catch but as he did he felt the soft wet fur of Bull’s discarded coat. Impulsively he jumped back in alarm. He fought off the emerging voices from his head. His hands crept out once more. He located the water bladder and snatched it to his chest. He took tiny sips, stopping only to peer towards the sea. He whispered out loud,
“Get a grip of yourself man.” A voice came forth from the dark.
“You shouldn’t be scared.” Fear now gripped Andrew like a sharp winter frost, chilling him to the bone. This wasn’t Bull’s voice. Towards the aperture appeared the figure of a man resting against the damaged pontoon. “Who or what type of demon are you,” stammered Andrew.
“What a strange question to ask,” replied the figure. “Do you like asking questions? I do. I have a few questions for you.”
“What questions?”
“Like where is this place?”
“I don’t know what you mean. It’s a raft. We’re floating on the sea.”
“A painted sea?”
“What?” A prolonged moment of silence came and went. Andrew pressed his back as far into the pontoon as the pressure would allow. Finally, he said, “Look, go away.” Andrew heard a baleful laugh and then the figure said,
“Look you say? I would look but, I – cannot - see. I was asleep and now I – cannot – see! Who are you voice in the dark?”
For a fleeting moment the darkness seemed to lift. The clouds had parted once more and there was the comforting sight of a full moon. Andrew took his opportunity to locate the flares. His hand grasped one. It was still wet, but immediately he pulled the ripcord and fired it off into the night sky. He turned to view the exposed figure, but the illumination filled him with new dread. The figure had vanished but his eyes became transfixed towards the black ocean. More bleak thoughts circled in his mind. No previous experience had prepared him for the sight which unfolded in front of his eyes. Dark shapes surrounded the raft – tall and hooded, moving in the darkness amongst the waves. He was overcome with a feeling of spiralling dismay and foreboding. The raft drifted silently. He shut his eyes, hoping that when he reopened them, the malignant inventions would have vanished like the figure in the darkness. The waxing moon illuminated obelisk shaped objects out in the sea, emerging on the surface of the water, circling the raft and then disappearing again. The wind whistled as it passed over the raft, creating vortexes of air that swirled around him, turning the vessel like a carousel at a funfair, and with every turn of the raft, the objects appeared nearer. He felt as if he was stumbling down a pitch black spiral staircase, trembling hands stretched out in blind fear.
Andrew wiped his eyes and when he was able to focus, in every direction, there were black, hooded forms. Strangest of all, amongst the host was a white shrouded figure, its black companions appearing to rally around, as if protecting it. “Their leader,” thought Andrew. He felt like his eyes were conspiring with his imagination to deceive and to torture his nervous system. The clouds returned and the shapes began to fade, but Andrew struggled to stay in control of his imagination. To his horror, a large splash sounded close to the raft. Andrew stiffened. He considered that perhaps Bull or Malcolm had fallen overboard, worse still, taken by one of the hooded forms. He could see only darkness. He was awash with negative emotions. He felt trapped by the sea; it was his jailer - unwilling to let him go and every new day, it devised new ways to torture him, to make him lose his mind. He imagined floating in a cage with preternatural cellmates.
Andrew was rigid with fear. A growling noise sounded from inside the raft. His eyes remained focused on the spot where Bull lay sleeping, but he couldn’t be sure of anything. He imagined a creature, breathing heavily and curled up only inches from his feet. He convinced himself that he could detect a pungent, animal odour, like wet fur. He pulled his legs up slowly. For an instant, he drew his eyes to the surface of the pulsating black mass that by day, he recognise
d as the sea. Nothing appeared as it should be anymore. The group of shrouded figures circled the raft in a harmonious dance. The overwhelming feeling, that several thousand metres of sea water beneath their flimsy vessel, expedited his dread. Until now, he hadn’t really contemplated the cold depth and darkness of the ocean; it had been just another substance to travel on. He thought of all the strange contorted creatures that existed at pressures unbearable to man. He thought of the water in the oceanic trenches, unaffected by the motion of the waves above, and remaining stagnant for thousands of years like a maritime soup.
The initial elation of avoiding death when he survived the sinking of the ship, and the shark attack the previous night, was a distant memory. A gastric rock of fear continued to rise up inside his gut. Andrew’s brain battled to make sense of the situation and stay in control against an incoming tide of despair. He entertained an erroneous image of him being swarmed by the figments of his own hallucinations, unable to stave off the frenzied attack and being dragged down to the extremity of the deep green sea. He yearned for any object with no association with the sea. He thought of trees and mountains but in his mind the trees in his mind turned to flotsam and the mountains into foam crested waves. The imminence of insanity was falling upon him. He visualised happier times, moments of joy shared in the first few months after meeting Ashley. A serene moment, holding her hand as they attended a Jan Fabre exhibition at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery called the Blue Hour. The relief was brief. He recalled the inspiration behind the art forms – the blue hour was a moment of residual light, circling around the time which exists somewhere between light and dark - what artists call the sweet light as it spilled across the earth, and what the Celts believed was the opening of a gate to the Otherworld. Was the visitation from a supernatural realm, he thought.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 15