Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  I glared round the group, “Emission rates are accelerating gentlemen, up by thirty percent already in this decade. You fail to understand that the projected effect of any carbon cutting will be more than offset by the fast declining ability of our natural environment to absorb carbon and by no means an insignificant factor, world societies’ ever escalating consumption of energy,”

  I repeated, doubtless in a supercilious manner, “The world’s ever escalating use.”

  Silence. I’d struck home! Eyes fixed me with rapt attention. No holding back angry words from a racing mind. “Wind power, wave power! Look, gentlemen, you are harnessing two of the planets greatest natural forces, largely benign as a present function of the overall global system. Exploit their latent power and apply it to our form of energy usage and you’ll turn what are the earth’s natural features into substantial emitters of heat.”

  Not a move. Were they stunned by my outburst? Goldberg, gazing out of the window had his back to me. Was I beginning to shout? “Emitters, dissipaters of heat, simple first form physics by turning wind power into radiant energy you’re adding to what the sun already supplies. It’s concentrating a cool breeze into electricity and running it through a two bar fire and putting it back into the atmosphere as heat escaping through the window. Never mind turning the tide into air conditioning systems for the wealthy whilst the poor swelter. You fools, nuclear power is the worst of all. Even forgetting the dangers I’ve outlined, you’re releasing into the environment the cosmic energy which was locked in uranium when the planet was formed.”

  I let that sink in. Hatchet Face cleared his throat. I kept on regardless. “Anyway, I believe that major U.S. industrial business interests are bent on a rapid expansion of nuclear energy generation, both here and abroad, but within forty years mineral uranium will become a dwindling stock, not dissimilar to the current oil situation. So carry on, gentlemen, but if you want a future for your families then throw taxpayers money at photosynthesis and solar power, and make it fast.”

  The P.M.’s eyes narrowed, pupils shrank to dots. His face twisted into a fixed smile. Before he could stop me, I began again, without doubt in a loud arrogant tone,

  “Can’t you understand, methane is the real menace, twenty-five times more potent than CO2 at producing warming. Today’s escalating CO2 emissions are leading to the unleashing of the earth’s vast store of methane. It’s under the permafrost.We’re at the mercy of melting permafrost, and perhaps you aren’t aware that trillions and trillions of cubic meters of methane exists in ice clathrate deposits right across the globe, even below the sea bed. Extraction of this new type of fossil fuel is about to start. Make no mistake, this sort of disturbance could trigger a run away release of methane from the clathrate beds. The balance is delicate. Add in the melting effects of ocean warming on seabed reserves and you could get an uncontrollable chain reaction with disastrous consequences. Mark my words, the methane clathrates will be the planet’s next energy gold mine.”

  Sir Joshua spun round, startled. I leaned closer to the P.M. almost shouting in his face, “It’s your inability to see beyond the flashy world of high finance.It’s your myopic economic policies versus the environment and moreover, Prime Minister, I question your political mandate from the electorate for any such expansion of the nuclear industry. Had you spent a fraction of our taxes on researching low frequency photovoltaic cells, instead of vast sums creating the misery of your illegal attack on Iraq, the menace of nuclear generation could be avoided.”

  I raged on without drawing breath, “And by the way, all nuclear facilities are to a certain degree under micro-chip control, don’t forget the manufacture of these components is vital to much of today’s modern living and it’s passing out of U.S. control, moving to cheaper labour out East. Your so called terrorists will quickly learn that by infiltrating the design and manufacturing processes of the micro-chip industry they can create mayhem in far wider zones than the battlefield. Nuclear plants, aircraft, air traffic control, early warning systems, banking affairs, health, innumerable areas of our complex societies could be vulnerable. It’ll make the type of wars you’re presently spending billions on fighting seem as outdated as armoured knights on a medieval crusade.”

  They sat back. Stunned at my outburst nobody spoke. In an attempt to recover my composure I ended by saying in a more moderate pitch, “as far as climate change is concerned the challenge is even greater. We’re passing the tipping point of runaway temperatures and we’ll need intelligence to survive, not ideology.”

  Hatchet Face made to speak. The P.M.’s raised hand stopped him and glaring at me his eyes narrowed to venomous black dots. I heard Goldberg draw a sharp breath. The silence turned icy. The clock ticked loudly. “I think these wider issues are really not part of your specialised field,” with considerable self-control, his words were delivered in a measured tone.

  Immediately we all stood up. Smiling thinly, mouth only, he squeezed my arm. “The industry is confident the matters which concern you are well in hand. There’s always a lunatic fringe opposing us, constant danger from extremists, religious fanatics and so forth, but have no fear, we will control these issues.”

  His head lifted a fraction; his eyes glittered with an arrogant hardness, “I know I’m doing what is right. It’s for the great mass of honest people, their future, their homes and their jobs. Thank you none the less for coming over but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think your views are both highly offensive and irrelevant.”

  The atmosphere became frigid. He dropped my arm. Hatchet Face exchanged glances with Goldberg and moved from his listening post behind the Chesterfield to stand at the Prime Minister’s elbow. We moved to the door. With a piercing glance, as though it could be an afterthought, the P.M. continued,

  “I understand your consultancy paper is not yet up for discussion elsewhere.” He became unpleasantly insinuating. “I’m sure you know what I mean. Sections of the press can be so disruptive when it comes to the interests and wellbeing of our Nation.” His eyes drilled into mine. “Nor would a lack of discretion of any kind be in your own interests.”

  From now on had I to fear surveillance?

  Turning abruptly he nodded to Hatchet Face who without a word showed me out. Un-noticed, Sir Joshua had already slipped from the room.

  That was it, another wasted day. I loathed meetings and the paper shuffling types who cultivated them into a profession. Two hours in the H.Q. of power; cloak and dagger tactics behind the curtains of influence and preferment. Northing what it seemed, sleight of tongue replaced straight forward exchange, expediency before honesty. Throughout my ill chosen outburst, Hatchet Face studied me, heard all, said nothing, but contributed to the atmosphere of side glancing suspicion. Two hours in the shadowy corridors of talkers and plotters, two hours too long.

  As I’d left, lens- eyed vultures waited at the front gates hoping to pick over some object of degraded ‘officialdom’, maybe a politician who fiddled with his expenses, his secretary, or both.

  The fag ends of a fading democracy.

  I came away disgusted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Eyes

  The tube gathered speed. Passengers leant against me. Suddenly the day’s tension snapped. Enough of politicians and their bogus altruism, to hell with Heathrow! I’ll get off - but where? After five years buried in the abstraction of particle physics, why miss a chance to dive into this honking-bonking, kiss my wallet world of aspiring millionaire-dom?

  Wealth, lovely wealth, its scent followed every glamorous hairdo, clung to elegant suits stepping out of taxis. Sophistication romped along a neon runway of brittle, soul devouring fun. Excitement zipped. Covent Garden and a dose of opera? Tube adverts proclaimed, ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’ A new production, a heart ripping tragedy. Too staid. I needed to compensate for the afternoon with a jazz club sweating out Dixie-land. Supper in Chinatown at two in the morning, then where, Soho?

  Downhill all the way. I fancied a spot of decaden
ce. Yes boy. From attempting to track the illusive nature of existence surely I could wallow in its spin off; an outbreak of dissipation threatened. Time to step aboard London life, balance on its gloriously undulating surface, ride its exuberant peaks, be carefree in the troughs, be as irreverent as stuffing a whoopee cushion under the Archbishop of Canterbury at a hypocrite’s funeral.

  After dealing with that pack of jokers a malt beckoned. A large one plus a reflection point. I needed a spot of relaxing debauchery, a high stool and a barmaid with a sympathetic eye, maybe lap dancers, anything to remove the taste of politicians, even a 40 inch TV filling its plasma face with the inanity of snake eating celebrities. Tube stations came and went, Hyde Park, Kensington.

  Try as I might the evening’s prospects yielded to cynicism. I retraced a meeting which had left me stunned. Political careerists fiddling their expenses, directorships in companies receiving government grants. My despair at their lack of foresight and honesty was matched only by loathing. Self-seeking men, mere soft handed talkers with little experience in a commonsense life of practical skills, nor with any obvious courage to face a bullet, could by manipulating words inflict the carnage of Iraq, send soldiers to their grave, unleash the horror of killing and maiming untold innocent women and children and sitting at a desk they could think up the obscene mockery of calling their actions, ‘shock and awe’. From the haze of cigar smoke curling from dens of nepotism and religious dogma came the smoke of depleted uranium shells, and leukemia.

  The tube train journeyed through a conduit of bitter thoughts. I looked out of the carriage window. Platform after platform still thronged with faces, many far from exuberant. White faces, grayed by the fluorescence of office hours, wooden faces, blank and indifferent, yellow faces, green under the glare, brown faces, sensitive and thin, black faces with shining skin and egg white eyes; what feelings did they register? Aspiration, despair, love, sorrow, greed? Hardly- more a dullness of eye which reflected the linear graph of a living that awaited the impact of some spike of circumstance, good or bad.

  East bound, west bound, a red circle round Piccadilly, shiny tiles mirroring adverts. Toothpaste and the perfect grinning teeth, the rosy glow of an outdoor existence courtesy of liver pills, a week’s sunshine care of Thomas Cook. Hurrying days, scurrying people grasping at media- hyped expectations, the superficial creating the superfluous in a mirage of wealth and happiness. A hurly-burly of feasting on the planet’s diminishing resources. Rolling out the powder keg of economic growth whilst champion of freedom and democracy, the American Dream wearing ear plugs locks the masses in a chamber of their own making and lights the touch paper.

  Did nobody sense a trap?

  Unsure of where to alight, I stayed aboard the rush hour medley of clanking acceration and the whoosh of air rank with electric discgharge. A trickle of sweat hovered on the edge of a collar too tight for its wearer. It occurred to me that city suits and their umbrellas required extra space. Meeting a fellow traveller eye to eye seemed rare. Too disturbing, maybe suggestive? Certainly eyes didn’t linger, a momentary glance, perhaps; instead they studied the red artery of the Central Line or some futile exhortation, a latter day version of the High Street sandwich board, ‘Repent, the End is Nigh.’ Few appeared convinced, nor were following the advice.

  Being several inches above average height I looked across swaying heads, felt the press of bodies dependent upon a stranger’s hand holding a strap or clutching the corner pole. Tubby flesh leant on me, a dog collar in a grey ‘mac’ with the vacant eyes of righteousness. Hoping not to give offence, I shuffled aside. A briefcase, discretely strapped to my left wrist contained the unwelcome research paper. My right hand was free in case of trouble.

  Several shoulders down the compartment the woman’s head caught my attention. Her hair tumbled shoulder length in a natural mass of gentle waves, thick and golden. Far from affectation she held her head with a natural pride which appealed to such an extent that had I been beside her I could not have helped but speak. The instant attraction caught me by surprise. She had the long slender head of a Nordic woman. At no more than a first glimpse I knew this woman belonged to latitudes of the fiord lands, larch clad and silent.

  Train lights flicked along tunnel walls snaked with cables, bodies lurched at each bend. I remained gazing at her proudly shaped head with a fixed intensity. The press of strangers went un-noticed, clatter and smell faded from any awareness. A dark cliff formed before me, sea pinks bloomed on ledges above an empty shore from which came the tang of salt air. Rippled by the tide, sand shone white beneath limpid water. Beyond the gable of a house, fields long abandoned sloped to hill and moor, forsaken by time and remoteness; the lost freedom of a people.

  A small boat lay beached on the edge of a bay. The woman stood bare foot, tall and easy, a hand on the boats gunnel. Her hair shone as wavelets tipped with sunlight. Warm and downy it slipped golden through my fingers. She turned towards me, tossing her beautiful head. Her eyes held the blueness of a day where sea and sky were one.

  My image could only have been momentary; the crowded train returned. Staring at the woman’s averted head became obsessive. Alarmed she might alight at the next station, vanish amongst the mass of commuters, I determined to reach her side. “Excuse me, excuse me please.” No response from the passenger jammed against me. Good manners failed. I must speak with her. Drawn, it almost seemed by the intensity of my attraction the woman turned and our eyes met.

  The impact drained all other thought. Steadfast and deep set, sparkling as the first of a morning sun will dance on crumbling waves. Her eyes were those of my vision, the eyes of the woman beside a boat. The bay, the boat and the eyes of this woman became a single imprint, for their blueness was of the sea which flowed in the blood of the Viking.

  She gazed at me unwaveringly. It was no passing glance; on her face I saw the expression of a person focused somewhere distant from the crush of a tube train, in her eyes a look of inexplicable searching. In return I made no effort to hide the appeal of their beauty.

  At last she smiled, her eyes moist and shining.

  Orange white, the world erupted in a flash of searing brilliance; it shattered the carriage; laser blinding, instantly engulfing everything in a split-second. Steel ripped into steel, screeching, screeching, ear splitting screeching. The carriage tipped into blackness, dragged along the tunnel wall, a contorting mass of twisting metal. Glass flew in lethal shards, seats buckled. Electric wires fizzed and crackled. Throat gripping smoke poured through the compartment, acid thick in a choking blanket of terror.

  Bodies crushed against me. I fought for breath. Cordite filled my lungs. Screaming, screaming surrounded me, the agony of mutilation. Body parts splattered the seat that pressed into my back. Above was the hideous rattle of a person trying to breathe through a windpipe cut by splintered glass. He grappled with me, pouring blood from his neck and fighting death. I wrenched one arm free, felt my face. Blood, warm, horribly slippery, trickled down my neck. Mine or his? Both of my legs, immobile. I gave up attempting to free them, conscious only of groaning.

  Time is but the measure of movement in space. It slowed------ became slower. I was falling,---- falling. Its passing bore no relevance, except as the medium by which to dwell on those whom I loved. They flooded into being, beside me, looking down, in tears. I tried to speak to them. This was death; a futile death, no purpose, no glory, no sacrifice for fellow man.

  Amidst fading thoughts came a voice; it trailed away, drew me towards a distant blueness, the intensity of sunlight through the prism of life.

  “We shall meet, we …,” I watched the woman become fainter and fainter, till alone her eyes remained, smiling out of a gathering blackness, comforting as the warmth of an entwining body. Deep within the cloisters of some wave sculptured cave soaring voices sang a requiem to beauty, the sole expression of truth. Strongly, then faint as an ebbing life, it echoed amongst the hollow chambers of a dying consciousness.

  Masked faces under
yellow helmets gently eased out another mangled form. Was it me?

  Voices, muffled voices, “Cut that bloody briefcase off his wrist, that’s what’s holding him, I’m pretty sure he’s dead. Get him on the stretcher anyway. Pass that mask, Joe. We’ll give him oxygen, yes the pure stuff. Switch it up. Now boys, lift. Steady, he’s a big lad.”

  A moments awareness rushed through me. I floated on the sensation of breathing. My eyes were open. Sirens wailed, lights flashed, stretchers and urgency. I fought a terrifying dread.

  The ambulance driver leaned back. His words floated on a cacophony of wailing sirens.

  “Which way Chief, hospital, or the morgue?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Coffin

  As a newborn child on the edge of sleep is aware of breathing, so a mind without awareness of any other self, concentrates upon the rhythm by which some hidden urge demands survival. Slowly, though it need not have been, for time had no meaning, only a dim sense of un-ending space seemed present. It beat with the pulse of waves that fall endless after a storm.

  No bodily sensation intruded, merely a lightness suspended amidst flickering colours. They grew then faded, to re-appear with the brilliance of a rainbow on thunder black clouds. The air took on a pureness, a freshness known to the heady cartwheels of childhood when limbs stretched to grasp the joy of living. Each breath stirred scenes which hovered on the brink of an awakening to a horror embedded in the sub-conscious. All paled into a crimson haze, through which the first barbs of dawn pierced the fog that hung over a torpid sea.

  I opened my eyes, green- was everything green? Light bored into aching sockets, garish lines of fluorescence. Serious eyes looked down out of masked faces, their voices muted. Without moving my head I glanced to one side. Tubes dangled. Blood red shone above me. It seemed bright as the first tip of sunrise streams across still, mauve waters, and breathing the pureness of sea air, gradually the ocean took me, closed over my head, green and drifting, green and drifting as the lightness of a sail on the motion of a long, long swell.