Shadow Over Sea And Sky

by K H Middlemass

  7

  The two wolves, snow white and night black, travelled together through the canyon and on into the lush forests that lay beyond these mountains. As lower beasts, they could eat and survive off the blood of the animals they encountered on the long journey, giving them the energy they needed to run the hundreds of miles they crossed together. They ran through the night, when it was cooler, and slept in shaded places when the sun was high. They lay close together, curved around each other like the yin and yang symbols Richard had seen in the library’s books on philosophy. They ran for many days across forests and fields and rocky terrains, only stopping to sleep and eat as their instincts commanded. Sometimes they washed their fur in the rivers and streams.

  They only took their human forms again once, so that they could discuss what they would do when they arrived at the ocean. The countess revealed that she had arranged a ship to transport them to France. The ship was called the Iris, she said, and it would have everything they needed for their long journey. Two coffins were waiting to be taken into the cargo hold, filled with the dirt of their homeland. This is where they would rest, rising only to feed in the night when most of the crew were sleeping soundly. Crossing water would be difficult, the countess said.

  After seven nights they finally came upon their destination. The scent of sea-mist was strong around them from the cliffs they stood upon, looking down at the harbour. A huge, magnificent ship was anchored far away from the docks, rocking along gently with the waves. Its sails were a deep shade of red, clear to him even in the cold blue light of dusk. A mermaid decorated the ship’s prow, hair flowing over her naked breasts. She was carved from wood, and so felt nothing. This new life might have been carved from a tree sick with age, with poisonous roots taking hold in his heart.

  The white wolf began making its way down the cliff, searching for the path that led to the harbour. The black wolf remained for a few moments longer, looking at the mermaid, before turning and following the steps of the white wolf downward. The docks were quiet, with only the sound of the lapping waves and the occasional call of a gull hanging in the air, and they darted across the pier towards a lone standing hut, where they found the door left ajar, held in place by a small brick wedged between the wood and the frame. This was where the large boxes lay in wait, surrounded by other boxes stacked up around them; canvases and statues were covered in heavy cloth. Clothing, a grey travelling dress and a fresh shirt and pair of trousers, was draped over the only chair in the room.

  Changing back to a human was harder because Richard’s wolf mind was less capable and easily distracted, but he was soon back on two feet. The first time he had done it, out on the journey, it had taken twice as long and left him feeling a little lethargic, but now his exhaustion was all-encompassing. He could barely dress himself and longed only for the sweet embrace of the earth. The countess prepared herself carefully, arranging her undergarments with a practiced precision before pulling the simple, smoke-grey gown over her head. A small silver pouch rested upon one of the boxes, and when the countess opened it she found a hairbrush, some fine powders and a great deal of money, more than enough to get them to France and the chateau that the countess had purchased decades ago. She placed the bag in her box, covering it over with dirt and forming a mound to rest her head upon. The countess did not appear to suffer from the exhaustion that plagued Richard, but then Richard supposed that she must have mastered the art of the transformation long ago. There was still much for him to learn.

  He watched her go to one of the canvases propped up against the stacks of boxes containing only a fraction of the countess’ riches. The canvas was covered like all the others, and the countess took a fistful of the cloth in her hand and gave a short, sharp tug. Of course, Richard already knew what was beneath that cloth.

  His masterwork stared back at him in all its cold splendour. Richard marvelled at it with his new eyes, and even then he could not be sure if he was truly capable of such miracles.

  “I had this portrait sent here some weeks ago,” the countess said, “because it is the one thing that I wish to bring on our travels from this place, this old country of ours. I have resisted against the inevitable for so long, because I was waiting for you, and for you to immortalise me.”

  “But my lady,” Richard countered carefully, “you are already immortal.”

  The countess smiled at that, but her eyes remained fixed upon the canvas.

  “Ah, but there is no true immortality,” she said, reaching out a hand to caress the cheek of her painted face and trail her fingers down the replication of her neck. “I selected the books that were sent to your chamber. It was important that you knew how our destruction might one day come about. Do you understand?”

  Richard did not answer. He remembered that book, and how he had taken solace in it, but like everything else, she had found a way to taint it. She had wanted him to read it, because she wanted him to feel the stirrings of hope before tearing it away. She would find his pain amusing. He kept his eyes fixed to the portrait, his creation, his legacy.

  “People fear death because they do not wish to be forgotten,” the countess said, bending over and picking up the cloth she had cast aside earlier, “And so they work and create, they build and write books and music, they love, hate and everything in between, and they strive for meaning. When they leave this plane of existence and enter the next, they hope that someone, anyone, will remember them.”

  She threw the cloth over the portrait, hiding it away from Richard’s eyes once more. She looked at him, watching his face intently. He betrayed nothing, only continued to stare at the concealed canvas. The countess drifted to his side, and they stood together between their resting places.

  “People create art,” the countess whispered into Richard’s ear. “And when they create art, they create life. Through your brush, Richard Volkov, I have been reborn. And for that, I thank you.”

  The words rang hollow and Richard would not acknowledge them. In silence he turned away and slowly climbed into his box, thankful for the earth’s embrace at last. The box was equipped with a lid, and to his surprise the countess closed it for him like a mother tucking in her child. The last thing he saw was her face; her mouth was fixed in a line, her eyes as dark as a storm. And then Richard was gladly met with darkness and, finally, sleep.

  As the sun rose in the sky to signify another day, the town slowly came to life. Stocky and tired-looking men left their homes to trudge their way to the docks, weary and aching from a pain that would never fade. They would spend the day lifting boxes and rowing from ship to ship to place them in the holds, then rowing back and beginning the process all over again. Their skin was browned from their long hours beneath the sun and the sweat poured from their brows as they laboured in the heat. Only the breeze from the sea offered them some relief.

  The boxes in the huts were cleared by midday. Richard and the countess lay in their boxes undisturbed, only vaguely aware of a heat that bore down upon them in their sleep. The dockworkers had been instructed not to inspect this cargo, and each of them had been given five gold coins in exchange for their compliancy. The men were poor and had families to feed, and so of course they had agreed to avert their eyes.

  The Iris set sail in the mid-afternoon upon a calm sea and underneath a vast expanse of blue sky. Out on deck, crewmen went about their business, telling bawdy jokes and singing ancient shanties as they surged towards the horizon. The captain of the Iris was a man of great physical stature, and he stood at the wheel and looked out at the water. He was a proud man, and well-liked by his crew. He in turn was thankful of their respect. As he stood there, he contemplated the journey ahead. The weather was clear but the sun was hot and the air was charged; the captain feared a storm. He ordered the men to prepare and went to his cabin, where he would wait for the first lightning bolt to strike.

  Of course, the lightning did strike, and the thunder rolled like the banging of war drums, the sea surging in huge, fearful waves.
But the men had prepared as they had been commanded, and they held strong against the wrath of Poseidon.

  Down in the cabin, stacks of boxes shifted and rocked as the ship battled against the tide. They were made from a thick, black wood and filled with dirt, scooped from the forests that surrounded the mountainside; a fine and gritty dirt, laced with droppings and twigs and bleached-white animal bones. Inside the largest box, surrounded by the earth of his homeland, Richard Volkov slept and waited for the journey across the sea to come to a close. He did not dream, but the sounds of the waves crashed in his ears, roaring and deafening.

  The storm would end soon, and night would come.

  Part 3

  The Sky

  1

  The pub was surprisingly crowded for a Friday afternoon, but Emily was glad. She had come to meet Simone and Nick and felt nervous enough as it is; she would have struggled to say what she needed to say without a loud buzz of conversation to mask her words.

  Unlike the Anchor where Simone begrudgingly worked, The Singing Mermaid had a great deal more charm and attracted a rather different clientele. It was a small but perpetually cosy place decked out in warm shades of oak and copper, and you could usually find at least a few of Caldmar’s middle-aged residents sitting in the one of the many overstuffed armchairs, sipping port and wine and fighting off the creeping sense of sleepiness that comes with heat, alcohol and the zealous consumption of good food. Christopher had been known to pop into The Singing Mermaid on the way home from work, though never for more than a quick half and a little conversation with the patrons, and when Emily was younger she’d sometimes gone down to meet him for the walk back home at her mother’s request. She didn’t really know why Victoria did this considering that Emily had probably seen her father tipsy only a handful of times in her life and he was never the kind of man to make stupid decisions, but she enjoyed making the trip down there and was happy to do it. She liked the warm light that spilled out of the pub windows and the sounds of laughter and animated conversation that grew louder only when the doors opened. It was like encapsulated happiness, happiness that brought out the best in people.

  When Emily went inside she was happy to be greeted by the familiar sight of the mermaid bust hanging proudly above the bar. It had been taken from the bower of a ship long since out of commission and was the inspiration for the pub’s name. When Emily was little she liked to make up stories about the mermaid and how she ended up here, captured and sold by a cruel fisherman, and imagined her growing back her missing tail and returning to the sea to live out the rest of her mermaid life in happiness. But here she was. The paint was chipped and flaking along her cheeks and hair and everything about her was a little faded now, but Emily still thought that she was beautiful. She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers at the mermaid, like a conspiratorial communication between old friends, but quickly lost confidence in her actions when the barman gave her a strange look, eyebrow raised and a weary smile on his face. She sheepishly paid for an orange juice with the remaining change she had in her pocket and took a quick glance around the room. She could see Simone’s blonde spikes floating over the top of an armchair to Emily’s left like feathers. She had secured the best spot in the pub; three of the most comfortable chairs placed around the little fireplace that was always burning, even in summer. She came up behind the chair and leant forward, hooking her arm around Simone’s neck and giving it a very gentle squeeze. The golden tendrils of hair tickled her face. “Been here long?”

  Simone twisted her head to look up at Emily, smiling. “Oh yeah. I met Nick at the station and we came straight here so he could numb the pain and horror that was his journey.”

  Nick laughed. His voice was rich and musical and Emily couldn’t help but smile in response to it. He raised his tumbler in recognition, and she allowed herself to get a good look at him. He was wiry and handsome, but then she had expected that. His black hair was cut close to the scalp, his skin was dark and smooth and his brown eyes glinted with the slightest hint of mischief in the firelight. Emily noticed that he and Simone were similarly dressed in band shirts and jeans, but while her friend always seemed artfully messy, he instead wore his simple clothes like it was the finest suit that money could buy. An old, comfortable looking leather jacket lay crumpled at the foot of his chair and he sat with one leg hooked over the other, already relaxed and comfortable in a place that he’d never been to before. He was confident without needing to overstate it, and Emily was instantly struck by how he complemented Simone and how perfect he was for her even though he hadn’t even opened his mouth yet. She raised her hand to him and gave a shy nod in his direction. She never had mastered the art of confidence the way others around her seemed to.

  “Emily, this is Nick, the elusive boyfriend,” Simone said, gesturing towards him with an overlong sweep of the arm. She turned to Nick and repeated the gesture, this time towards Emily, “And Nick, this is my one and only Caldmar compatriot, Miss Emily Van Buren.”

  Nick smiled wide, his teeth incredibly white against his skin. “Van Buren, cool name. It’s a pleasure, Emily.”

  “Same,” Emily agreed.

  “Pop a squat and drink your disgusting non-alcoholic beverage with us,” Simone said, wrinkling her nose at the juice in Emily’s hand. “Nick’s already discovered the joys of the whisky here.”

  At that, Nick took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes in pleasure. “It almost makes the trip down here worth it.”

  “Oh, so I’m not worth it?” Simone asked playfully.

  “Nope, not a bit; in fact, I don’t actually like you at all,” Nick retorted without missing a beat. He opened his eyes again and gave Emily a pointed look. “I seriously had no idea that those… I don’t even know what you’d call them. Tin cans? Death traps? I’m leaning towards death traps.”

  “Nick forgets that things out here are infinitely more basic than they are in the city,” Simone said, swirling her beer around in its glass before taking a hearty swig. “And that includes the trains.”

  “There’s simple and then there’s dangerous,” Nick said. “I stand by my assertion that what I was sitting in could not be described as a train.”

  “So, how do you like it so far?” Emily was aware that she sounded meek and rather uninteresting, but she couldn’t think of what else to say.

  Simone gave a derisory snort, but Nick ignored it. “Well, this place is nice, and this whisky really is the nectar of the gods. But I can’t say much else at this point.”

  “No, I think that’s about it,” Emily said. “It’s a… it’s a quiet life here.”

  “Bordering on comatose,” Simone chipped in. Nick laughed again, eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing,” he said, sloshing the honey coloured liquid about in his tumbler thoughtfully. “Sometimes quiet can be good. It helps you think, helps you come back to yourself.”

  Emily nodded in agreement. “It must be very different from your usual life.”

  “Emily, you have no idea,” Nick drained what remained of his glass. “If I’m not crammed in the world’s crappiest van then I’m trawling the biggest city holes you’ve ever seen, trying to convince every manager and landlord that their particular hole is in dire need of my band’s music, usually gratis. There’s, like, fresh air here. I’d actually forgotten what fresh air felt like.”

  “So, who’s in your band?”

  “Some guys I went to university with. They call themselves Echo Base. They never did get over their Star Wars phase.”

  Simone rolled her eyes. “Boys. You don’t have phases, you have obsessions.”

  They talked on for a while, the conversation flowing comfortably, and Emily found herself relaxing in their company. It made her feel less uncertain of what she would have to say when the time seemed right. Now was still too early. Nick went to get more drinks and Emily agreed to a whisky, wondering if Dutch courage was the way to get the words out.

  Event
ually the topic turned to Emily’s art when Simone mentioned the Volkov project to Nick. “Emily’s going to be the next Jackson Pollock.”

  Emily couldn’t help but frown even though she knew that Simone was joking. Emily had never been fond of Pollock; his work was too messy, too directionless for her taste. Simone noticed the wrinkle forming above her brow and gave Emily a cheeky wink.

  “The man who lives in the house on the hill,” Emily explained. “He commissioned me for a portrait. He’s… he collects art, I think.”

  She thought of all the paintings lying hidden under dusty sheets in the manor’s attic and repressed a shudder. A memory of her mother drinking wine and talking to her father appeared. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright as she ranted about the cruelties of lepidopterists and how they made a beautiful thing like a butterfly stiff and ugly with their horrid pins and boards. A neighbour of theirs had invited them to see his collection, and they had dutifully gone, but back home Victoria could say what she really felt. As the wife of the mayor, it was the only place where she could say what she really felt.

  “Simone said he was some kind of recluse,” Nick offered. Emily shrugged her shoulders.

  “He’s certainly something like that,” Emily said. “I don’t think he’s met anyone in Caldmar save me and my parents.” She didn’t mention Sarah Wilson.

  “It’s a cool house,” Nick said. “Like something from a Hammer Horror movie. Simone pointed it out on the way down here. If I had a place like that I probably wouldn’t want to go out much either.”