“It is the reason why you stay here?” Goe asked.
To this, she simply nodded.
“How long have you been waiting?”
To this, she simply shook her head, not because she didn’t know, but because she did know.
“Why weren’t they singing?” she asked.
“Who?” Goe replied.
“The men on Uronglol’s ship, on the rare occasion when I see ships the sailors are always singing.”
“He forbade it,” Goe replied. “Said men only sang when they needed cheering up and his crew should never be sad, because they believed in him, they believed in what he was doing.”
“Sounds a little arrogant.”
“Not arrogance, just awareness,” he replied as if an expert on the subject. “He wanted only the most loyal men on his crew, which was wise considering he was travelling to the edge of the world.” He took a beaten breath after he said this.
“Would you be able to sing me a song?” Bash asked, looking back to her knees again.
“I’m afraid I am not much of a singer,” he said as he listened to her own beaten breath. “Do you like the songs of sailors?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
“I like to dance,” she replied.
“That I can do,” he said raising his hand and offering it to her.
“Thank you but no,” she said with a short smile. “Dancing without music is like cooking meat you’ll never eat, a chore without reward.”
She closed her eyes then, her mind moving a memory of music into itself. Wondering if a remembrance warble would suffice.
Just when it seemed that it wouldn’t, she heard a harmony outside of her head.
She opened her eyes to see the source of the sound, it was coming from Goe. He was plucking the strands of his hair like it was a harp. She couldn’t understand how he was making such marvelous music with his hair, only that he was making such music.
“Are you sure you don’t want to dance?” he asked.
As a smile swelled on her face, she listened to the serenading hum of his hair. Even the air appeared an appreciative audience and seemingly began to sing along to the tune.
“Wha…” she began but never finished. Now wasn’t the time for talking, now was the time for dancing.
She stood slowly with the grace of a flower blooming in a beautiful spring, her boots were already on. Slowly she swayed back and forth, for this was how any good dance began and she believed this was going to be a good dance. As she closed her eyes, her coloring changed back to a human form. She felt the music the way a wife feels the touch of her husband, sending sensations to swim all through her as her body billowed like a leaf in a loving wind. She could feel the sand swirling on her boots and knees, joining in on the joyous occasion.
When the warble ended, she kept her eyes closed for a few moments, the way one does after a delightful dream. It indeed had been a good dance.
She opened her eyes slowly like she was awakening from the most satisfying sleep she had ever had. But when she saw what now laid before her, her eyes enlarged, eclipsing her expression.
“What is this?” she asked, crouching down slowly, studying the lines in the sand. They were simply too articulate to be aimless.
“A map,” Goe replied with a smile.
“To where?” she replied still studying the lines.
“To where you will find another Chimmerock.”
“What?” she gasped gazing back at him.
He nodded, still keeping his smile.
“You know where they live?” she asked studying the map in the sand.
“I would have to read that map to be sure,” he said and then responded to her puzzled look with, “The map in my head is a map to one’s deepest desire. Clearly, your deepest desire is finding another Chimmerock. With that map you will be able to do it.”
When she continued to silently stare at him he explained, “I am an Emotionalist remember, every Emotionalist has the power of map making. The gods gave it to us to ensure we would never go extinct.”
“Extinct?” she asked, though she clearly knew the meaning of the word.
He kept his smile as he stared back at the sea. “I am powered by ego and egomaniacs don’t last long when all they have is ego. Something I should have kept in mind before sailing on a ship where music was forbidden.”
“I’m sorry for what he did to you,” Bash Kesadet replied remorsefully.
“Don’t be,” he replied. “You didn’t do anything wrong, unlike Uronglol.”
“What will you do to him when you find him?”
“What he tried do to me,” Goe replied with rawness.
“When it is done, what will you do then?”
“Convince the crew to let me set sail with them, something I am surely capable of.”
“Where will you travel then?”
“That I am not sure of, although having a destination to suggest would make it easier for my former ship mates to determination whether they should let me sail with them again. Can you think of such a destination?” he asked, knowing that she did and she smiled, because she did indeed have a destination in mind.
THE END.
Shane Porteous is a mastery of the legendary 77 donut devouring technique. He lives in a place of strange dreams and even stranger reality. A lifelong writer, he has an immense passion for the fantastical and prides himself on being alterative and if possible original with his storytelling. He has been published both traditionally and independently. The single guarantee he gives with his novels is not whether you will like or hate them but he guarantees you will remember them.
SAILCOATS by Kenneth O’Brien
Eric stood on the beach with arms high and outstretched, grasping the bottom edge of his jacket, lifting it, waiting for it to catch the cold sea breeze. He called this game Sailcoats. The breeze picked up and his jacket billowed, forcing him to run along the water’s edge to maintain his balance. He continued to race the air for as long as he could until his body threatened to lose its equilibrium to the momentum. Eventually, he dropped his arms in an admission of defeat, coming to a halt beside a length of kelp framed by the casts of lugworms and broken shells. Catching his breath, the boy stared out to sea and let the raw wind rake his face. Deep within his young mind, he half-understood that this was an act of self-mortification and he was almost grateful when a whiptail of sand, brought to life by the gusty weather, rose and stung his eyes, leaving him momentarily blinded by tears.
With a sigh, he wondered how else he could amuse himself. If he went home too early, the fact that he had skipped school would be discovered. He scanned the world around him, looking for some excuse to kill more time away from the torment of the classroom. He had no friends – no real friends – and he knew how stupid he was. He didn’t need school to confirm that fact. The marks on the pages of textbooks others called words were alien to him; a senseless confusion of indecipherable symbols and he was tired of being laughed at by other children - whilst puckered old maids masquerading as teachers abandoned him to the ridicule. School was just another word for humiliation.
His eyes searched along the shore to the ending of the sand; to the boulders, shelves and outcroppings jutting like fingers into the ocean; to the rising of the red cliffs topped with grass and then up to the cold, blustery blue sky. Here I am, a voice cried in his mind. He saw an object he couldn’t at first identify – a thing that rose from beyond the crest of the bluff – tall and lighthouse shaped, painted in helical red and white stripes. He gripped his bottom lip with his teeth as he searched his memory for a point of recognition and smiled as he finally realised what he was looking at: Helter Skelter. The funfair was in town.
His steps were powered by the energy of curiosity and a strange compulsion as he moved over the ripple-scarred sand and made his way to the winding path that led up to the cliff-top and beyond. Oystercatchers dashed out of his way on legs moving so rapidly that they reminded him of a cartoon Coyote suspend
ed in mid-air, trying to avoid the drop.
‘Meep Meep!’ he cried, and then laughed as the maddened, screeching birds took to the air in a flurry of black and white wings.
He stood, fingers grasping the links of the temporary safety fence that had been erected for the construction phase of the funfair. The smell of lubricating oil mingled on the wind with the scent of Candy Floss and Toffee Apples. Pressing his nose against the cold metal barrier, he watched intently as men erected the skeleton structures and then covered them in brightly painted steel sheets. Generators belched smoke and spanners clattered against supporting beams. Large trucks encircled the site as if protecting settlers from an imminent attack by Red Indians.
And one, by one, they rose - so much like metalliferous monsters from another world: Dodgems, Waltzer, Octopus, Dive Bomber. Each machine emerged to stand proud over a gathering of tented stalls, but dominating the site and resembling a beacon signalling the start of a great adventure stood the Helter Skelter - resplendent in its red and white helix paint job.
His mind was transported to a time in his past when he was exploring the attic. Amongst the dust and detritus of things that should have been thrown away long ago, smeared in cobwebs, he found a large box – his father’s favourite old toy. The funfair, he realised, was something like a giant version of the Meccano set he discovered that day – all nuts, bolts, spanners and prefabricated promises of excitement and adventure ready to sell to the townsfolk
‘Get out of it!’ A burly man with a face full of black grease and massive hands lumbered menacingly towards the fence.
‘I’m only looking.’ Eric replied.
‘Well, go and look at something else. It’s dangerous when we’re erecting and we don’t want nobody getting hurt. It’s not good for business. Come back tomorrow night. That’s when we open. Then you can look all you want. Anyway. Shouldn’t you be at school?’
Reluctantly, Eric made his way home. At least, he consoled himself, school would be just about over now, and his secret was safe for another day. He was aware that it was just a matter of time before the headmaster contacted his parents about his truancy. He didn’t know what to do other than hope that the day never arrived. The only thing he could think of at that moment was to persuade his parents to let him come to the opening night of the fair.
The evening air was frigid and the pavement edged with frost as he made his way to the entrance where he could see the spinning and turning machines illuminated against the dark sky by myriad colored bulbs. Joining the stream of people at the gate, he heard the melodies from a steam organ accompany the excited screams of riders as they swooped, curved, and spun in the night. He stepped across the threshold and immediately smelled sugar turned to fluff, mingled with the aroma of burgers and frying onions coming from the food stalls. Ozone from the sparking ceiling contacts of Dodgem Cars added a sharp flavor to the air as he walked between the exhibits. The music, colour, odour, and laughter threatened to overwhelm his senses but he was just glad to be able to experience the atmosphere. With so much he wanted to do, he knew his funds were limited. Financial concerns, however, failed to stop him from investing in a sherbet dab and he smiled in pleasure as the powder sent tingles across his tongue. From now on, he asserted, he must choose carefully how he disposed of his money and continued to study the available amusements with the forensic eye of an accountant. He turned in the direction of the Helter Skelter but a voice caught his attention and he approached a large tent that seemed to be the source of the commotion. He peered at the sign above it but was unable to read the wording. Cursing at his own stupidity, he pushed through a crowd gathering near the exhibit.
A man stood on a platform. He wore a bowler hat, sported a handlebar moustache on a chubby face, and held a megaphone close to his mouth. ‘Roll up! Roll up! Come and see Doctor Callow’s Amazingly Grand Phantascopical Hall of The Dead! Is it magic or is it science? Nobody knows for sure, but ghosts really do exist, my friends, and you can meet them here!’ He pointed down towards Eric. ‘You, young sir! You look to be a boy who knows no fear! Step inside if you dare!’
He’d frequented every funfair that had been to town during his young life but had never come across an amusement such as this before. The Helter Skelter was forgotten as he realised that the compulsion he’d felt earlier in the day was for this particular tent. He had been drawn like a pin to a magnet. He didn’t understand how or why but he knew that it was as it should be. This was where he was meant to be. He just knew. Without any more hesitation, he handed over the required amount of cash.
The mustachioed Doctor Callow gave him a wink as he accepted the payment. ‘Step inside, young sir, and see what you will see.’
It was strange, Eric thought as he walked through the heavy canvas flap that served as an entrance, he couldn’t hear the noise of the fair anymore. Looking around, he found himself in a graveyard at night and shivered as he realised that the air was even colder in the tent than outside. His breath left his mouth in whisper trails of steam as if all his secrets escaped him. Stars twinkled in a black night sky and it felt as if he was truly standing on the manicured grass of a cemetery. He studied the nearest headstone and concluded that, although very realistic, was probably made of plastic. He immediately drew back his hand in surprise when he touched it. A moment later, he touched it again. Not plastic, he decided. It had a hardness like granite, and seemed to have patches of moss growing on the surface. His fingers moved across the cold slab to stroke the green substance, which turned out to be softer and warmer than the stone on which it appeared to grow. Real? Eric shook his head at the stupidity of the thought – it couldn’t be. And yet… No. He felt a wave of disappointment. It was just another sideshow and the force that compelled him to be here was nothing more than an imagined thing by a dumb boy. He was certain of it. This place wasn’t real.
A moment later, he caught the faint scent of something sickly sweet in the cold air and sensed a presence nearby in the gloomy graveyard. He turned to see a boy dressed in old-fashioned clothes and wearing a flat tweed hat.
The thin-faced youth tugged at the peak of his cap. ‘Hello, Eric. I’m Larry.’
Larry appeared insubstantial, as if the slightest breeze might make him take to the air on a spiraling journey, with as much control over his destiny as the winged seed of a Sycamore tree. Looking at him, Eric decided, was similar to peering through foggy old cellophane. Here was a boy with no more depth than a sheet of tracing paper.
‘How do you know my name?’ Eric asked bemused.
‘Because I’m a ghost. A ghost always knows your name.’ Eric noticed that there seemed to be a musical lilt to the boy’s voice. It merely added to the sense of strangeness that hung in the night air.
It all seemed so real and despite telling himself that he was simply standing within a tent at a fairground, Eric felt his heart quicken as the thrill of fear manifested itself in a tingling sensation through his spine. He exhaled slowly and tried to project at least the appearance of being calm. Ghosts don’t exist, he reassured himself.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ Larry said. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’
‘I know that,’ Eric replied. ‘I know that this is all some kind of trick’
Larry shook his head solemnly. ‘It’s no trick. Doctor Callow runs this place. He tries to help us find a match.’
Eric frowned. ‘What kind of match?’
‘You and me.’ Larry replied. ‘We’re compatible. You only need to agree.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The ghost sighed and it became a soft breeze passing through the tent. ‘Of course you don’t so let me tell you how Doctor Callow explained it to me. It’s quite simple really. Every living person is like a piece of music, a song of life Callow calls it, and each has a ghost that happens to be a harmony of a particular person. Once we enter this world Doctor Callow has made for us, we can’t leave again until we find our living match. The doctor says that only when the living and dead
are in balance – in harmony - can we truly be at peace with ourselves. Of course, there are some ghosts and people that are naturally…discordant. I guess you would call them evil but, don’t worry, I’m not one of them.’
Eric shook his head dumbly.
Larry frowned. ‘You’re not getting it, are you? I’ll try again.’
‘Don’t waste your time,’ Eric snorted. ‘I know this is just a trick.’
‘The two need to be together to be whole,’ Larry continued. ‘Most people are never really whole. That’s why they go through life so unsatisfied. Some cultures talk about a spirit guide and this is what they mean. There’s a ghost for everybody and Doctor Callow uses his instruments to help us find the right person. But he can only open doors. That person has to say yes before the ghost can leave this place and be with his match. You can’t just be whole, you have to choose to be whole. Once that person dies he needs to find his own living match and his old spirit guide can move on to the next place. It’s the symphony of life and death.’
‘But why would a ghost want to be with a living person?’
‘I already told you. Because there needs to be harmony between the living and dead. Doctor Callow says that we’re all part of the same composition. But there’s something else. Every ghost is like an unfinished song and has a different story, a different need, and a different reason for still being on Earth. We need a coda, he says…an ending. We need to be complete.’
‘And what’s your story?’ Eric asked. His voice tinged with sarcasm.
9 Tales From Elsewhere 12 Page 3
