I Sit In a Boat on the Ocean Read online

  Stepping into the Grove

  Come, we can be alone here.

  In the Autumn, the hands of the sundial run backwards, sweeping away the breezes abandoned by the fleeting Summer. For a time, their voices still sound. The breezes haunt the garden, unable to reconcile themselves to being left behind. A compulsion grabs each and every one. Hands cupped over mouths, they coo their secrets to the air, to the black arm of the sundial, to the garden at large. Some of their voices slip into this grove, drifting on the still air. On and on they coo. From the pleasure of revealing all, or the need to be noticed. On and on until there are no secrets left. Only so many words, our very own flotsam washed up on the turning of the seasons.

  In the end, the sundial sweeps away the words and Summer’s cast-offs, too. And, then, there is only silence and the coming of Winter.

  But, here in the grove, a little of their whispering remains. Those sounds that enter here can never escape. The breezes’ voices remain, forever.

  As shall you.

  Don Pedro’s Motorcade

  Don Pedro sits in the back of his car, waving, waving.

  Now that the roof has been sawn off, we have an uninterrupted view. His uniform looks almost pink in the twilight. Making an effort, the sun’s last gasp burnishes the patrón’s medals. The show is almost impressive. So many medals; so much chest. A few might be real but whispers slink from mouth-corner to ear, to mouth-corner again: Them medals, just sweet wrappers over plastic. What an old fraud …

  Don Pedro changes arms, waving the other hand. Servants struggle to balance the flabby upraised arm on sticks. All day they have been doing this, running from one side of the car to the other. Taking the weight of the Don’s huge arms as he waves, waves. Frantically working to repair any stick splintering under the burden.

  Standing off to the side of the crowd, Florencio Aldrete can afford to look bored. At first light, as we filed meekly into the street to watch Don Pedro’s motorcade of one, the major domo’s scowl overlooked nothing. Now, he stares at the sky, or steals glimpses of Damiana Rufio from under his own wife, Matilde’s nose. Matilde, standing beside her husband, basking in the reflected glory of his position as major domo, has not glanced away from Don Pedro and his car all day long. The look of adoration on her face has not budged since it formed with the Don’s eventual appearance at mid-morning. It only altered to deepen with each passing hour. Matilde Aldrete is the patrón’s greatest admirer.

  Before night finally snuffs out the ritual, Don Pedro spreads wide his fingers. Waving, waving. Chubby hands making small circles, rings peeking around bulging flesh, winking like distant planets. Dolores Caudillo leaves off picking her nose and pokes us into a last splutter of applause. In a shabby uniform meant for someone taller, heavier, this woman looks ridiculous. But the self-appointed guardian of the Don’s peace takes her place in our small village most seriously. That club is bone-hard, sharp as Dolores’ sharp chin, ‘though not as sharp as her capacity for imagining dissent where it will please her most.

  So, we clap. Clap and, as an afterthought, find a worn out cheer left over from some long forgotten time when such things came more easily. Regardless, our eyes are mindfully reserved only for the patrón.

  Don Pedro sits in the back of his car, waving, waving. The car sits on blocks, tires and wheels hardly even a memory now. Tethers lank, two horses lie in the dust before the motionless vehicle. Sucked dry by the heat, their bones weave odd patterns beneath fly-bitten hides. Each so far dead that the last time they towed Don Pedro is almost as distant as the wheels that once supported the patrón’s weight.

  I believe I know how those horses felt. Don Pedro sits, getting fatter, fatter. So fat, I wonder how long it will be before he smothers us all.

  A Serious Job

  Each evening, he walks from room to room, floor to floor. Drawing curtains, turning on lights. Throughout the whole house he goes. Drawing curtains, turning on lights. Every evening the same. This has been his one and only job since the age of 16, when he took over the post from his Great Uncle, who held the position for 37 years. That was 43 years ago. Every evening since, he has patiently gone around the house and prepared it for the coming night. 18 floors, a million rooms and, in them, 2 million curtains and 3 million lamps. Each one he climbs to, visits, draws or switches on. He finishes just as dawn touches the eastern sky. At which time, he must revisit the 18 floors, 1 million rooms, 2 million curtains, 3 million lights: extinguishing, opening, closing, climbing down again. Preparing the house for the day that is a preliminary for the evening that will inevitably follow.

  Henry

  The tree was only just far enough from the house to dim the sounds of the argument a little. Anger stained everything, the garden cringing whenever a voice escalated into a shriek of rage. Henry buried his head amongst the leaves. The tree quivered, branches swishing sympathetically.

  A hush came over the house. Quiet deepened, spreading outwards until the garden held its breath. Henry peeked around the trunk. Hope brought fresh tears to his eyes.

  His mother’s voice cracked the silence in two. The tree jolted as Henry flinched. Ire, strong and acid, set the garden smouldering. Overlapping voices shrilled between the branches. His father sharp, scornful. His mother cruel, wounding. Renewed heat gave the argument greater fierceness and volume.

  Henry cringed. The words beat around him on black wings. He wanted to plug his ears but daren’t let go of the trunk. Henry screwed his face up, holding in his tears. He had to keep quiet.

  Rough bark scratched his palms, a broken branch poking into his thigh. Neither pain mattered. It was the shouting that hurt. Each new burst of words battered against his ears with their black wings. He hunched as best he could, trying to protect himself. Talons raked his shoulders, hooked beaks pecking away at his arms, searching for a way to his heart.

  More birds appeared, screeching as they rose from the house to circle the tree. Henry buried his face deeper into the bole. Tears dribbled along the grooves in the bark, falling faster as the argument worsened. Desperately, Henry tried to stifle his sobs. The pain in his throat was terrible, but he had to keep silent. If he was silent, perhaps the birds would go away.

  Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he tried to cower down inside himself. In the darkness, Henry began to worry that this was all his fault. If he had done something differently, or not done it all. If he hadn’t climbed the tree, or made less noise, or come a different way home from school … The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that his parents were arguing because of him.

  A sob escaped. Henry bit his lip. Silent. He had to be, wanted to be silent.

  Still the birds circled and sniped and pecked, whirling so quickly Henry began to feel sick. Dizziness threatened to tip him from the branch. Birds swooped in, claws outstretched. Scratching, tearing, biting. They turned about Henry, tighter and faster with each revolution.

  It was too much. He wanted to be silent, but the fear inside him was so big, so huge, he would burst if he kept it in any longer.

  Henry screamed. Over and over, until his throat became like the bark under his hands.

  At first, the sound drove the birds back. They faded, almost disappearing, before rapidly returning. Blacker than ever, blame and guilt sharpened the hatred dripping from their claws. Unable to stop, the argument-birds fell on the little boy.

  His ragged screams were drowned amid the noise of the mobbing birds. Their dark weight settled on the tree. Henry vanished beneath writhing black wings, thrashing as fresh beaks and talons ripped at him. Gouging, tearing. More birds appeared, then more until it seemed they would never stop.

  Silence came abruptly, as shocking as the snap of something breaking. The birds heaved upwards. Scattering, fading like wraiths to leave nothing but the taste of guilt and resentment.

  The tree settled. Branches, released of their burden, sprang back into place then paused uncertainly. The silence in the garden grew deeper and more final.

  O
f Henry, there was no sign at all.

  Everyone Else

  The day before yesterday, I realised everyone was sitting down.

  In each house and on every pavement, not one person was standing except me. They all sat on identical folding chairs. When they wanted to move, they shuffled along in a half-crouch, clutching the sides of their seats. I was the only person standing, the only person walking.

  I got some strange looks, like they didn’t understand me.

  Yesterday, I noticed that everyone was walking a dog.

  Everywhere I went, people had leads in their hands. Everyone except me. No one went anywhere without a dog on a lead, even when they were putting their unwanted folding chairs in the bin. It was an uncomfortable feeling, being the only one without a dog.

  I got some pretty suspicious looks, as if no one trusted me.

  Today, everyone is wearing sea shells over their ears.

  They look like they’re believing whatever they’re hearing, although no sound leaks through the shells. In fact, now the dogs are gone, it’s very quiet. There’s just the sound of breathing.

  I don’t want to put on sea shells, or get a dog, or sit on a folding chair, but I’m starting to feel scared.

  The looks I’m getting are really hostile.

  Cat’s-Paw

  They are silent as he steps forward, heads bowed in something resembling fealty. Smiles and benedictions stumble from his fingers. He speaks of honour, his belief in the majesty of his office. The ministers at his back nod, nodding again as the waves hiss over of the pebbles littering the beach. High up in the rocks above the cove, a meagre crowd watches the perfunctory coronation. He looks up and, guileless, assumes their silence is acceptance. Mute confidence in him and his office. But, sitting beyond reach of the spray, the spectators see only a small man on a rocky beach. His words lost in the clash of the waves, they have no idea who he is or even realise he is their new king.

  The King hurries down the beach, eager to begin his duties. A twist of uncertainty at the enormity of his responsibilities makes him glance back. The King’s newly-appointed Chamberlain stares vacantly at the scudding clouds, eyes crossed as he blows spit bubbles. The ministers, however, still have their heads bowed. It is they who have placed the King on the throne and, seeing this demonstration of respect, he fills with confidence. He stands at the edge of the leaden sea. This sea which beats against the shore and steals the land piecemeal. The King’s land now, in his trust and charge. He will stop the waves. It is his duty, the duty placed on him by his loyal ministers.

  He raises his arms and commands the feral sea to halt. Foam bursts over him, a wave coiling around his legs. The King topples in a heap of good intentions and threadbare robes. He tries to get up and falls again. Then once more. Oblivious to his commands, the sea washes over him and places a crown of spume about his head.

  Up the beach, the ministers discard their bows. They watch the foundering King, exchanging covert smiles. This King is every bit what they hoped for. The ministers put their heads together, ignoring the King as they ignore the cretinous Chamberlain and the corpse hidden in the rocks. An able man, that corpse had been. Far too able. The ministers examine the blood on their hands, then sheath their knives close to their hearts. In easy reach, for the time will come when they shall need those blades again. As one, their gazes linger on the King. Then they draw their cloaks about them and hide their faces beneath dark cowls.

  Overhead, a black stain spreads across the sky.

  Brian Dally

  Do you remember when we called Brian Dally “rabbit”? Everyone else picked on Brian and us, so we decided to show we were better than Brian by picking on him. I’ll never forget his face. It crumpled, folding in ’till only his teeth remained. Poor Brian. You said “rabbit”, and I said “rabbit chops”, just in case he didn’t get it, and Brian’s face crumpled, turning in on itself to hide.

  You looked at me and I saw a ghost walk behind your eyes. The ghost whispered: You’re doing wrong. Loudly, so I couldn’t hear it whisper, I said: “Rabbity rabbit chops.” Eight years old and with the face of a refugee tired of never being safe, Brian tried to turn away, hands fluttering, lost.

  “What you sayin’ to my bruvver?” Jenny was six, barely up to Brian’s waist once she climbed off her trike. Pedals locked to her feet, Jenny cycled everywhere. Before we’d ignored the ghost and turned Brian’s face in on itself, Jenny had been orbiting the road island at the end of our cul-de-sac. Now she stared up at us. “What?”

  The ghost was in Jenny’s voice; it looked out from under her face as well. You’re doing wrong.

  “Nothing,” I said, pulling a mask from my back pocket and hiding behind its face. I was always a coward. “Just sayin’,” said the mask.

  “Your bruvver is —” and that’s as far as you got because Jenny was pulling the ghost from your mouth. One-handed, because the other was gripping Brian’s hand. Squeezing, releasing, squeezing again until some of Jenny’s strength began to fix his face.

  The ghost ran its hand across your mouth, wiping away your lips. Then it slowly opened its fingers so Jenny could see the word “rabbit” nesting in its palm. She glared at us, tugging at Brian until he leaned towards her. Gently, she placed the ghost’s hand over Brian’s mouth. He swallowed and the word was gone.

  So were your lips; they now hid Brian’s teeth. You ran away and didn’t speak to anyone for a month. For years afterwards, I was sure your voice was the ghost’s.

  Jenny gave me a final look before pedalling slowly away, taking Brian with her.

  I never did manage to get that mask off my face. It sank into my skin and there are times, looking in the mirror, when I can’t tell the mask from my old face. My eyes from the ghost’s.

  I hope Brian has long forgotten us.

  Pilgrimage

  I saw the queue from a mile away. Traffic congealing as more vehicles were abandoned, people gently squeezing into the crowds already trudging along the hard shoulder. Or weaving in and out of motionless cars, buses, lorries. The footbridge over the bypass was packed; every path running parallel to the road beginning to fill. I watched from a flyover. Bewildered. Unease making the sunshine cold. Every road in the opposite direction was empty, turning back would be easy. Instead, I watched. They walked steadily, if not in step. Without pushing. Without talking. People of all ages. All walking together, all in the same direction. Towards a towering shape in the distance. A shape that hadn’t been there the day before. Forgetting about leaving, thinking only of a route through back alleys onto the canal towpath, I worked around those crowds. The shape looming as I closed the distance. Dominating the skyline as I scrambled up onto this wall overlooking the retail park. Only, there is no retail park any more. Every shop is gone, vanished overnight. A ziggurat standing there instead. Base almost the width of the park, its top half-way to the clouds. Huge. Impossible. And the crowds pouring down the slip roads from the bypass: every one of those people looks only at the ziggurat as they shuffle closer. Gathering around it. Their mouths open, hands raised as if to touch the giant. Or feel the chill of its shadow. Every face smiling, enraptured. Hundreds of them. No, thousands already, and the first buses are arriving, full of passengers joining the pilgrimage. With each one that reaches its base, the building grows a little higher; the faithful absorbed into the ziggurat. Completely absorbed. And, as they are, each one says the same thing. They say — No. You’ll hear for yourself soon enough.