by LM Cooke
The sea sealed blackly over the last of the boats, greedily sucking the final traces of them away. Then she gathered herself back together, cool, flat and black as the skies above in yet another instant of unnatural calm. A pause, filled with dreadful intent. And then an instant of equally dreadful decisiveness, as she began to draw herself together again. Voraciously, she gathered her waters about her, hauling them all towards her, leaving behind her a trail of slimy, exposed sea bed and gasping, dying fish. Larger, she grew, and taller, travelling faster and faster, aimed relentlessly at the harbour, where James Fairweather still gasped for breath, just like one of those abandoned fish.
James struggled in the tightening noose. His watering eyes were wide and as black as the ocean behind him. Blood thundered in his ears like the roar of the surf. Almost reflexively, he kicked as he hung there, the rope twisting in response.
Light-headed now as he fought to breathe, he knew death was close. And to some extent, he welcomed it; God knew he had little enough to live for now. But he could feel something more, something else. The rising tide of his surging blood. The sharp scent of salt and seaweed, cloying in his nostrils. In his ears, a deafening roar of surf, the throb of the ocean. And the unvoiced scream of oceanic rage, to which his body almost seemed to vibrate.
His vision darkened further as the light faded from the sky. As he kicked and spun on the twisted rope he could see the horizon dissolving into blackness. Dark clouds loomed angrily as the storm gathered apace. A berserker wind screamed in from the sea. Furious waves clamoured at the rocky beach. Breakers hissed venomously over the shore, hurling rocks and driftwood at the wreckage of boats and buildings with foamy fingers. The harbour piers, already damaged from the previous storm, shuddered and groaned in their fixings as the water shoved and heaved at them, insistently.
Another heartbeat crashed in James’s ears like a ship grounding on the rocks. Below him he caught a frozen glimpse of the faces of the villagers caught twisted in hate and vindictiveness as the first bolt of lightning illuminated the sky. He opened his mouth – to gasp for air; to shout; to warn them, even now. Even if he had been able to muster the breath to make a noise, he knew it was already too late - for him, and them both. Sea spray caressed his face. It tasted of salt, indeterminate from the blood already in his mouth.
Beneath him the water rose again. Now it rippled level with harbour. Now it washed over it, swamping the feet of the villagers. Now, at last, the villagers began to pay some attention. The wooden posts supporting the harbour trembled and vibrated as the sea heaved against them, plucked at them with insistent fingers. Further out, the pier was swallowed, lost under briny, boiling water. That thick, cloying, metallic scent of salt and seaweed filled the air. Salt, or blood.
One more heartbeat; how many were left? James’s kicking was growing weaker; his livid white face now barely discernible against the rapidly blackening sky. He could barely feel the caress of the ocean spray.
The black clouds above chose that moment to join in. Rain, unleashed like a pack of dogs. It fell in a torrent, sweeping across decks and harbours, rampaging through the streets, pouring from roofs and down walls.
For James, the sudden drenching shocked him back to some semblance of himself. Semi-revived, he kicked and floundered in his bonds anew, succeeding only in twisting his rope still further. Below him, the rain also had a motivating effect on the villagers. They had seen enough of the dying man, now that the storm was here. They turned, slowly at first, then with growing urgency, and fled the ruined harbour. Behind them, rain thrashed down, running over the decking in torrents. Waves snapped at their heels angrily as the waters rose higher still.
Another labouring, faltering heartbeat, slowing now, like thunder in his ears. Now the harbour was submerged under inches of water. Beneath him, waves rose higher, stretching towards his kicking feet. The rope spun once more, slower now. He could see the ocean behind, palpably engorged, swollen with intent. He felt, rather than saw, the sea boil over the rocks that lined the harbour. His spine shuddered, creaking at the impact of the water that crashed onto the cliffs on either side of the village.
The sea threw herself further into the harbour, clawing at and clinging to the cliffs. She fell back, repulsed, only to regroup and hurl herself higher still. The fragile paths across the cliffs quivered as the surf pounded at the rocks. She hammered at flaws and cracks, sliding thin watery fingers between them. Hold established, she heaved and tugged until huge slabs of rock broke away and were lost in the seething brine, first on one side of the harbour, then the other. With a crash almost lost in the accompanying triumphant roar of the sea, the paths, along with a large expanse of the surrounding cliffs, crumbled raggedly into the boiling water below. What remained of the cliffs was rendered into sheer, impassable rock face. Behind the village, more mountains rose, equally savage and severe, the faint trails that marked them fit only for the passage of mountain goats. With the boats destroyed, and the cliff paths gone, the village was effectively cut off.
It had taken no more than another heartbeat. The fall of the cliffs was muted in his ears compared to the raging of his own blood. He was failing now, his struggles for air sporadic and diminished. His eyes were growing darker; all that he could see was blackness.
Further out, in the ocean, the blackness moved. It was barely visible, so black had the sky become. But the rush of the water betrayed it. The sheer size and vast scale of it betrayed it. Its deadly intent and unstoppable momentum betrayed it; and in another, fading, failing, crashing heartbeat, James recognised the brutal, black body of water, the heart of the vengeful ocean, the tidal wave that headed inexorably towards his village.
Almost lazily, now that its prey was trapped, the water coiled higher still. Barely conscious as he hung from the make-shift gibbet, James could feel the water around him, under him. It felt like ice, numbing his soul
He had been in her grasp before. She had not let him die. But she had systematically taken from him everything he had ever cared about. His mother, his wife, his beautiful daughter lost to her sullen currents. His father, taken from him in front of his horrified eyes. The crew, the boat that was to have been his inheritance. All now lost within her, while fish picked at their bones and shell-creatures nested within their skeletons. The taste in his mouth, of salt and iron; was it blood, or was it the taste of the sea herself?
Her caress filled him with horror and abhorrence. The vast, sucking, greedy emptiness of her encapsulated his senses, Unreasoning, unreasonable, unfathomable, driven only by her own wants, desires and capricious nature. Mindless yet filled with ruthless intent; jealous and clutching. She was her own law and her own god; and only he, who could barely even comprehend her true nature, could see the full horror of what she was.
His flesh crawled with revulsion as her icy grasp enclosed him. He had been in her clutches before and had not cared for the experience. He kicked and thrashed at the bubbling water with redoubled effort, seeking to tighten further the rope about his neck, terrified that he would not die before the waters rose high enough to drown him. She had taken everything from him. She would not have him too.
Freezing water cushioned him, caressed him, numbing his leaden, flailing limbs. Insistent fingers poked at him and tweaked him, pulling and pinching. His flesh was powerless to resist the urgency of the water. He could feel it seeping into him as it rose past his hips, up his chest. Those briney fingers worked at the rope around his neck even as he struggled to draw it tighter; those fingers pinched at the flesh around his neck, forced open his lips and invaded him. Salt tears of terror spilling from his black eyes mingled irrevocably with the black salt water that assailed him. Higher, the water rose, until he was engulfed, the ocean taking the weight of his body from the rope.
A heartbeat. A long time now since the last. The icy water had numbed his body, though he could still feel the insistent probing and pulling at his
malleable body. His eyes were wide and staring beneath the water, indistinguishable in colour. His face shone livid and white, a mote of pallor in the sea of blackness. His struggling ceased, his body limp and heavy. An insurmountable pressure grew in his chest; a roaring in his head. The rope slackened about his neck as the sea finally worked it loose, and, betrayed by his already weakened lungs, he breathed in, involuntarily. The seawater filled him; his mouth stopped with the taste of salt. His neck throbbed furiously as the salt cut deep into the wounds the rope had inflicted. For a moment, his confused brain thought it was air he was inhaling. Then the icy blackness claimed him.
Awareness fading. James felt the water caress him before it moved on. Then it left him behind. It paused before the village. And with an angry roar, it threw itself down into the narrow streets.
No more heartbeats.
Rushing water foamed onwards, upwards. Faces, seared with trepidation peered from upstairs windows. A pause, now, as if the ocean was savouring its triumph. And the water rose again, slowly now, stretching languorously, insinuating its way through the streets. Briney hands clutched at doors. Playful wavelets slapped at windows where children cried. The houses creaked and groaned as the water washed around their foundations, pushed at their walls, and continued to rise.
Those houses on the lowest ground, closest to the harbour, were already lost. Their occupants fled ahead of the rising waters, seeking refuge on higher ground, heading upwards to the sanctuary of the church. Others, not so quick on their feet, peered from upper floor windows as the water surged past them. Trapped by the rising waters, all they could do now was wait. And the water continued to rise.
Bored now, the sea grew intent once again. She gathered herself together and rose once more, dark and terrible. One more pause, this one just for effect, and the wall of water tumbled, falling crashing down onto the village, onto the coast. Foaming water washed away the streets; houses crumpled and were brushed aside under the onslaught.
Summoned from the depths along with the water that was their home, long, dark shadows moved easily through the water. Sleek, grey and muscular, they powered through the submerged streets, snatching at drowning people with giant jaws. A black, bottomless eye broke the surface; rows of teeth that went on forever. Pinned between the rising waters and the monsters of the ocean, the villagers were easy pickings.
Soon enough the sea was clear and calm, and the sky free of storm clouds. Of the village, there was no trace that it had ever been. The sea had engulfed it, taken it away, and presented a new coastline in exchange. Of the villagers themselves, there was no sign above the water. Beneath the icy, blue-green surface, however, some still fell, eyes sightless, mouths open in endless silent screams, the taste of salt and blood forever on their lips.
*
The sea is calm now.
The waves break gently against the rocky cliffs, while seabirds wheel calmly on the breezes rising from the water. The sun, setting now over the water, paints the sky a deep red, and showers the water with diamonds.
The sea gives and the sea takes away. But in the end, she mainly takes.
Along the coast, the village is not the only place that has suffered from the storm. The sea level has risen by some several feet all along the coast. She has reclaimed the neighbouring harbours, although their populations she has left unscathed, not trapped between the cliffs and water (nor facing monsters from the deep). Engulfed by their own problems, it is many days before anyone thinks of the drowned village, and more still before they think to offer aid.
The rescuers arrive by boat, rowing around the headland. There are gasps when they see what has happened. There is nothing here now but cool, calm water, blue and gentle. No one can have survived this.
A strange sight, though, catches the rescuers attention. Beyond what used to be the harbour, in the deeper – now very deep – water, dorsal fins circle. Sharks – far bigger than is usual - looking for their next meal? A telescope reveals some wreckage, a wooden spar; there is plenty of it floating over the remains of the village. Something white clings to it. It looks like a body.
Mindful of the sharks, they row over, oars poised to deliver a hefty blow and ward the monsters off. When they get closer they can see that it is indeed a body. A man, ghost-pale, is draped over the wreckage. Why the sharks have not removed the limbs that trail in the water is unknown; stranger still is the way they disperse as the rowing boat approaches, slipping silently back into the deep without contesting the prize.
An oar hooked into the wreckage hauls him in to them. At least one of the poor souls will get a decent burial. But to their amazement, he is alive.
He is bone-white and clammy, and he gasps for air as if he is drowning. There is a livid mark around his neck like a rope-burn. The flesh there is scored, an open wound; tendrils of damaged tissue almost flutter as he gasps for breath. His eyes, when they open, are as blue as the ocean itself, but strangely distant, bulging and staring from his head, swimming with water. He will not speak, not even to give his name, and he rolls his head from side to side as if in terror of the surrounding sea.
*
Now secure, in his cell, James Fairweather still cringes from the seawater that finds him even here, miles from the coast. He is obviously mad, quite mad. But, seawater notwithstanding, there is more to it than that. The thick, cloying scent of salt, almost like blood, fills the air around him. He gasps continually as if he cannot breathe the air; strange how the rope scar around his neck flutters slightly in places, reminiscent of the gills of a fish. The ocean has played with him for all his life. She knows where he is. He prays continually that her capricious attentions will turn elsewhere. But meantime, he can only cringe and hide, and watch for the first sign of the coming storm…
About the Author…
LM Cooke is the author of The Automata Wars, a steampunk trilogy. Volume 1, The Home Front was released in September 2012, and tells the tales of the people left at home while the soldiers on the front line take on an unknown enemy in a losing battle, while volume 2, The Front Line focuses on the fighting on the front. The concluding volume will be released in the near future.
LM Cooke has also contributed to the first three volumes of The Asylum Chronicles, the steampunk compilations also published through The Last Line. Contributions include Storm Watch in Tales from the Asylum (September 2010); A Letter To My Father in Beyond The Asylum (September 2011); and Waiting For The Sun in Lost Souls of The Asylum (September 2012).
LM Cooke is also vocalist (and occasional other instrumentalist) and main lyricist in the dark, twisted but–occasionally-amusing band Crimson Clocks (www.CrimsonClocks.com) – listen out for their musical version of her short story, Storm Watch.
In her spare time she is also co-host of the Gothic Alternative Steampunk and Progressive (GASP) Radio show on Blast 1386, has recently completed a Masters Degree in West Midlands history (specialising in Victorian prostitution) and plots galactic domination, while pandering to the whims of various feline overlords. You can find out more at www.LMCooke.com
‘The Automata Wars’ series and ‘The Asylum Chronicles’ are published by The Last Line publishing house.
“...transcends genre limits to such an extent that if we didn't call it Steampunk we'd have to call it something like Gothic-Sciencefiction-Crime-Thriller-Horror.” - The Last Line Publishing House on ‘The Home Front’.
Author photograph: Dave Frith photography.
Also by LM Cooke, from The Last Line publishing house
THE HOME FRONT
Volume One of the Automata Wars
LM Cooke
Home is where the heart is…
Certainly for the soldiers on the front line, where winter is fast approaching and their unknown enemy assails them with unspeakable tactics. In the face of a losing battle, all that keeps the troops sane is the thought of their loved ones, safe at home…
Home, where the fires
are burning low, the wealthy keep stiff upper lips, travelling conspicuously in conveyances drawn by modified beasts, and parading their newly invented technology to demonstrate that life can go on as normal. The lower orders turn to either the politicians or the nameless god for hope. On the street corners and in the houses of ill repute, working girls have other methods of keeping up morale.
The home front is not as safe as the soldiers imagine. Shadowy creatures hide in the unlikeliest of places. Killers stalk the streets. Enemy agents perpetrate acts of atrocity. From spoilt debutante to working man, no one is immune from the horror.
And behind the façade of everyday life, a secret war rages, hidden battles are won and lost far from the light of day…
The Home Front is where the heart is, and the heart needs protecting...
Available in paperback from The Last Line and other outlets.
Now also available in digital format.
Also by LM Cooke, from The Last Line publishing house
THE FRONT LINE
Volume Two of the Automata Wars
LM Cooke
Deadly automata infiltrated the city in The Home Front... what horrors await the soldiers on The Front Line?
New recruit Private Reynolds never thought that war would be a pleasant experience - but neither did he realise the true extent of the terror he would face in the rain drenched trenches. The monstrous enemy killing machines seem unstoppable; and a deadly, mystery sickness is spreading amongst the beleaguered troops. Meanwhile, there are rumours of dark things lurking in the surrounding swamps, where a second enemy may be waiting to pounce. Even the usually dependable modified Beasts grow less trustworthy.
