by Ariel Dodson
THE WIND OF SOUTHMORE
By Ariel Dodson
Copyright 2014 Ariel Dodson
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Chapter One
Arlen lay on her back, waiting. She had to concentrate to judge the timing right – the ancient clock which adorned the village hall had never worked, so she had been told, so there was no chance of help from its clangings. Still, she was getting better at it. For the last three months she had heard them, and had caught the ragged glimpses of swirling shadows staining the beach in dark, stretched veins.
There. It was time.
The moonlight stretched across her face in a cold, white streak, and the wind rose outside, a thin, grey ghost of a breeze, singing like a child’s whistle. Won’t you come out and play? She rose silently, biting her lip, her hand quickly sliding up the small chest which served as a table to grasp the thick, brass telescope that had belonged to her seafaring grandfather. As the moon glided across the night sky, illuminating the black ether, she positioned herself in the darkest corner of the deep, narrow window, and raised the farseeing glass to her eyes.
They had started. She coud hear the dancers, slapping the hard, damp sand with dragging feet, and in the corner of the glass she could see the robes flapping, swirling in a frenzy, the orange flames of the fire playing across the moonlit beach in cold bright bars.
She was as close to them as she dared be, her body flat against the cold stone, afraid to lean further out in case they saw her, in case they – called her – and she clamped down furiously on her lip again, the sudden rush of blood hot and salty on her tongue. One of the dancers stopped then and gazed up towards her, the hood falling back to reveal the face.
Arlen froze, and the telescope slipped from her hand, tumbling across the hard stone floor in loud, reverberating clangs. The wind swelled, and the whistle became a wail, so fierce and heartbreaking that it bit the girl’s eardrums with its despair, and she rushed from the window and flung herself onto the thin, narrow mattress which served as a bed, curling herself into a tight, close ball. The wind soared, shrieking into a scream, the cry bleeding from her ears and beating at her soul. They had seen her. They were calling her. And what could she do now?
She had seen the dancer’s face as the hood fell back. A young woman, with dark hair streaming in the wind. A few years older, the hair longer and matted with sea water. But she knew it. For it was her own.
Chapter Two
The morning found her stiff and wide awake, and curled into the same small ring of fear of the night before. She hadn’t moved all night. She wasn’t sure if she had even slept. Her heart seemed to have continued its wild beating throughout the blackness as she lay, buried under the one thin blanket, her eyes wide open, dark and staring, the round, glinting yawn of the telescope in the corner convincing her that what she had seen had been no dream.
It was cold, as was usual in their forgotten little corner of Cornwall, and the grey morning light seeped feebly through the deep slit of window in a spidery mist. She could hear Aunt Maud clanking downstairs, the crash of pots and pans growing steadily more surly, and Arlen knew that she would be pounding on the door if she didn’t show her face soon.
Her limbs were stiff and awkward, as if frozen with sea water, and she shuddered violently, the wind song and the memory of that face whining again in her mind with jagged, icy teeth. She splashed her face over and over with a fierce urgency, the almost freezing water in the antique copper bowl jolting her each time with a fierce nip.
Who was she?
She had heard them, for years she had heard them calling, their pounding feet across the sand stirring some ancient memory within herself that she did not know, did not remember, but which dwelt – somewhere –
And yet how could that be? That girl was older – drowned –
Who was she?
Who was she?
And why did she – ?
“Come on, you lazy girl. What do you think, I’ve been put on this earth just to wait on you? Move your bag of bones!” was her aunt’s early morning greeting, accompanied by a fierce thud on the heavy wooden door.
“Coming, Aunt Maud.” She was surprised to find her voice still in working order. The sea mist lay on her shoulders as she dressed quickly in the iron-grey light, pulling on jeans and a sweater, and tugging a comb quickly through her dark hair. The sun never seemed to break through the permanent fortress of clouds which resided above the village, although it could often be seen as a reflection above the tarnished light, giving the place a fuzzy, unreal quality. She was shaking as she descended the crumbling stone staircase, though whether of cold or nervousness, she didn’t know.
“Wasting the best time of the morning in bed. I’m surprised at you.” Her great-aunt was irritated easily, and this morning her niece’s lateness had decidely added to her impatience. “There’s your breakfast. Eat it quickly and be off with you to Mr MacKenzie’s. We need some more fish.” She slid a plate in front of Arlen, dripping with greasy fried fish, and accompanied by a few slices of dry, burnt toast.
Arlen’s stomach churned in revulsion as her eyes took in the sight. “Thank you, Auntie,” she almost whispered, pushing the plate away with a thin hand. “I’m not very hungry this morning.”
Her aunt turned and bent to look at her as she retrieved the plate. “You feeling alright?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Yes, thank you, Auntie,” Arlen answered quickly, slipping off her chair. “I think I’ll be off to Mr MacKenzie’s now.”
“Suit yourself then. And be sure to ask for the best mackeral. Oh, and I’ll need a kipper or two for our suppers. And don’t forget to tell him to put it on the bill.”
“Yes, Auntie,” Arlen called back as she escaped quickly through the heavy kitchen door. The wind hit her as soon as she was outside, stinging her cheeks and bringing smarting tears to her eyes. The salt air was like a wall, thick and bitter, and she coughed harshly, as it invaded.
They were staring at her strangely that morning, as she moved further into the village via the lonely Beach Road. She was used to the wariness of the villagers by now, although it still made her feel uncomfortable, as though she didn’t belong. Since a child, she had been a source of wonder, and almost fear, it seemed, sometimes. There was no real reason for it, except for the fact that she had been the only child in the village for as long as she could remember. It didn’t make sense really, but then nothing made sense in Southmore, when you came down to it. It was almost as if – they were frightened of her. Frightened of the Penmorvens altogether it seemed, Aunt Maud also being a rarely welcomed figure amongst them. But she was used to it – she had had to be. She had lived there her whole life, having been brought up by her great-aunt since a baby after her parents’ separation. Her mother, she had been told upon enquiring, had driven back home to Cornwall twelve years ago, and left her to the care of her aunt, deciding that the job of a single parent was one hassle she could do without. It was the kind of story Arlen had only needed to hear once, and she had firmly pressed any thoughts of her mother deep down into herself, where she wouldn’t have to confront them too often. The only real proof she had that the woman
had ever existed was a strange knotted charm which she had left for her daughter, and which Arlen, for some reason she wouldn’t discuss even with herself, always wore on a thin black ribbon around her neck.
She was used to isolation, and yet the sly glances of the local men and women disturbed her that strangely silent, salty morning. She felt as if she were marked out in some way she couldn’t see, and the memory of the anguished, dripping twin hung before her still in a silent, frozen cry. She could feel her blood turn icy at the thought, and her heart was pounding fiercely as she rounded the corner which led to the pier from where Mr MacKenzie sold and bartered his fish. Who was she? Who was she?
She was visibly trembling as she approached the old man, his shoulders hunched up against the wind. A retired sea-captain, he now supplemented his pension by selling the fish he caught further up the coast, and every morning he was to be found encouraging the villagers to share in the victories of the previous day for a small price and a friendly chat. But friendly wasn’t too popular in Southmore, especially not from an outsider, and it was perhaps for this reason that he was the one person Arlen was comfortable with. Originally hailing from Scotland, he had discovered the tiny coastal town on a journey to Cornwall and, finding the weather to his liking, determined to stay after they “forced him out of the Navy”, as he told her every week.
“Well, hen,” he turned towards her, his once sea-blue eyes now as worn and tired as the village itself beneath its crown of heavy, grey clouds, “out and about a bit later than usual, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr MacKenzie.” Arlen smiled at him. “I – I overslept – ” She stopped and closed her eyes quickly, as if to fend off the memory of last night.
He said nothing for a few moments, and she could hear the soft slap of the waves against the legs of the pier beneath them. “Aye,” he said then, “there are those of us who guard the nights as well as the days. And both are needed.”
“Yes, Mr MacKenzie,” she pushed a dark lock of hair away from her forehead. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she felt she had to be polite. “But what about you? Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go fishing?”
“Well, I’ve a little secret of my own,” he smiled then, slapping his hands merrily on his thighs and turning to the beach. “My grandson’s come from London to stay with me for a few weeks, and he’s taking over my rounds for me.” He chuckled. “He’s fourteen and he thinks he knows everything. Can’t say as I’m thinking he’ll be doing much good on his own though, myself. My catches’ll be missing me. I know how to sweet ‘em up, one at a time. But Robbie, he’s such a determined young lad.” He laughed and turned back to Arlen, who was looking disturbed at the unpleasant thought of him coaxing little fishes, Alice in Wonderland fashion, onto his hook, one by one.
“Smile a bit, lassie,” the old man said then, glancing at her keenly, “for there’s not much left when you can’t brave a bit of a smile now and then.”
“Yes,” Arlen nodded stiffly. “I suppose – ” But it didn’t seem as though there was anything much to smile about. Especially after last night.
As if it could hear her thoughts, the wind sidled past her ear with a hollow chuckle, and she shuddered at the empty sound.
“Aye, hen,” Mr MacKenzie said again, and this time he wasn’t smiling. “Brave a bit, or more, as needs be, and we’ll see it through. Now, here’s your aunt’s order, and – ” but he was forced to duck as a large grey herring gull swooped down from behind a cloud, apparently drawn by the fish. Arlen started as Mr MacKenzie waved angrily at it. It circled the sky for a few moments, and then positioned itself on one of the posts that supported the wall of the pier, not removing its beady, red-circled eyes from the pair for a second.
“There are more and more of them now,” Arlen said softly, as if to herself.
“Aye, lassie, there are,” Mr MacKenzie agreed. “The birds know. And they’re getting restless. There are changes afoot, you mark my words.”
“What sort of changes?” Arlen asked, her stomach growing tight and anxious. She could not forget the dark figures, whirling like bars, the night before, and the girl –
Mr MacKenzie gave her a long look, and then handed her the fish. “I can’t tell that. The future was never open to me in that way.”
“But why – ”
“Hey, Grandad!” The unknown voice broke her question and concentration, and she turned to see a tall, dark haired boy waving at them from a nearby boat, which he had just unloaded from his grandfather’s jeep with the help of a couple of fishermen from the next village.
“That’ll be Robbie,” Mr MacKenzie turned to face the waters, his previous words seemingly forgotten. “Get yourself home, hen. The wind’s getting up.”
She walked back down the pier with it battling against her, her eyes smarting with its sting. The smelly bundle of fish was clutched beneath one arm, and in her free hand she clasped the small charm that swung constantly around her neck. She could not help but notice that the large gull seemed to be following her, hopping lightly from fence to post behind her. Eventually she ducked into the corner sweet shop, trying to elude it and its sharp black gaze. All eyes in the shop immediately turned upon her, with the strange, knowing, half fearful expression that followed her around. Her nerves growing, she quickly bought a bag of peppermints and departed, shooting down the steps and around the corner, desperate to escape those accusing, boring eyes.
As she turned into the town square, past the ancient stone fountain and its craggy, lichen-covered image of a stone dragon which stood crumbling guard in the centre, she caught a glimpse of her face in the grubby window of an old furniture shop. Small and thin, her windblown dark hair milling around her white face, she appeared almost ghostlike, the pallor of her complexion enhanced by her large grey eyes, circled with purple smudges, which told of the sleepless night before. As she stared at her own image, she became strangely aware of a movement behind the phantom twin, a rippling, unctuous, swaying movement, which seemed to hold her mesmerised and locked in its motion. She stood silently, she didn’t know for how long, and felt herself rocking, as if held on a branch, the tension in her insides gently unravelling. The wind sang softly in her ears, and from somewhere within the darkness of the shadow rose a small, red glow, which grew wider and larger the longer she gazed into it, the heart in its depth seeming to hold a whirling cavern of fire and blood and life. It seemed familiar, and it was then that the voices began, pleading and yearning and swelling from a low, deep, desperate moan to an agonised wail, exploding in her ears and her mind. She would shatter if it didn’t stop soon, she knew it. She could almost see the orange sparks shoot from her body in a fiery shower, flashing bright and deepening to a thick, bloody rage. She could not seem to move, even to cover her ears, although what use that would have been she didn’t know, for the voices seemed to come from inside herself. She could feel herself burning, crackling up, and then suddenly her whole body snapped and tingled in a lightning flash, and her skin was burning from the hot touch of the charm, and it seemed that the pale reflection of herself shimmered and faded until she could actually see the image of the fountain, the dragon suddenly bold and clear, behind her. She whipped around in a frenzy, her heartbeat pulsating to a gallop.
There was nobody there except a lone seagull, crying and whimpering, its body tossing on the breeze above her.
She gasped, frozen for an instant, the small grey seaside village seeping through her consciousness again like a musty odour, the only sound the constant sighing of the shore and the thin mews of the gull. She didn’t like the look of it somehow, hovering above her, and turned back quickly into the Beach Road, the fish cold and greasy in its paper parcel under her arm. She needed to go home and think.
It was a good mile back to the castle. The Beach Road was a lonely route, rarely used by anyone except the Penmorvens as it didn’t really lead anywhere but to the castle, and it seemed an unspoken law in the village that the castle was to be left alone. The ro
ad wound, in a stark, dry river, along a cliff overlooking the seafront, the only decoration being a strange, upright block of stone, about six feet tall, which stood halfway between the castle and the village, guarding the chopping waters like a sentinel. It was known as Alchemist’s Block, named for an early Penmorven, and somehow Arlen always felt safe by that rock, perhaps for its family connection.
The bird was not deterring from its path, tracking her at a steady pace, hopping from tuft of grass to sand dune, its small, watchful eye never turning from her for a second. This is ridiculous, thought Arlen.
“What do you want?” she said aloud to the bird, feeling slightly more ridiculous. The gull said nothing, but stood and stared, its head cocked onto one side.
“Well, stare then,” she said crossly. “I’m going home.”
The sky was darkening as she spoke, gusts of rain spitting from the hanging clouds above and the churning sea turning black before her. There was going to be a storm, and she planned to be home before it started. She took a last exasperated look at the bird, which had still not moved, even as the raindrops spattered through its feathers like shattering glass, and turned, unable to prevent a quick glance at the heavy, tossing waters.
Dark, dark and deadly were those waves. One would not escape them easily. She shuddered, wanting to turn but somehow unable. An object bobbing in the foam had caught her attention. A charred piece of wood, belched and thrown by the whitecapped mounds of water. Arlen couldn’t help but wonder whether it had been used last night. As she strained her eyes, looking for something, she didn’t know what, she saw something else rise from the violent waves. It was a hand, adorned by a glittering ruby ring. And it moved.
Arlen froze, her hands grating against the cold stone beneath her, pressed so tightly that her knuckles threatened to break through the white, stretched skin.
