TheFifthElement
12-14-2007, 01:05 PM
There’s frost in the air, the dry scent of snow to come. The clouds gather like fat old ladies waiting at the bus stop, shivering with incontinence. They jostle each other, uncooperative and eager to be first, ever surprised at the unexpected expanse of their flesh. Soon they will join together into a single heavy mass, the sky will become a featureless arc, and then, only then, will the snow fall.
The sea is gentle today, quiet and mysterious. There’s hardly a trace of movement on the surface just a slight ripple where the water meets the angled edge of the ship and the ice sheets barely visible on the distant horizon. They seem to melt into the sky, encapsulating the alien landscape in a continuous grey-white dome. She stands in the centre of it all, trapped like a character in a snow globe though she is not smiling, as they do. She waits for something on the outside to shake things up, send the snow spiralling around her until she is buried in a shower of flakes, and there she will remain, unbending as moulded plastic, frozen in this frozen place.
She is engulfed in a large, quilted coat, the hood is up and her bare, unreadable face looks out, her eyes focussed somewhere in the distance, somewhere, elsewhere. She walks gingerly on legs unused to sea travel and with some distrust as though, despite the calmness of the water, it could turn at any time, and with a sudden pitch toss her over the side. She is the only paying passenger on this expedition. The others avoid her, as she avoids them, meeting only at mealtimes and, occasionally, in the thin passageways. She turns away so as not to see the curiosity in their eyes. She hasn’t spoken since arriving on board.
In her hand she holds a small wooden box. The rough edges suggest that it has been made by an uncertain hand, and is somewhat old. She carries it as though it were a small child, tucked carefully under her arm, protected from the biting cold. It is a simple box, thickly varnished with two small golden clasps holding it closed. They are delicate against the blockish wood and seem too frail to contain the contents. She rubs her finger against one, absent-mindedly, her thoughts elsewhere.
She arrives at the railings and stops, breathless from the cold rather than exertion. She stands, for a moment, drawing herself with some difficulty back to the present. The light is painful on her eyes which, until now, have not registered the sparse environment; she opens them fully allowing it to flood in. It changes nothing, even pain is meaningless. Her whole being is scar tissue, cut off from the nervous system that decays like old, disused roads. She stares into the sea, her face stares back, blank, impassive. The water is so still it is a perfect mirror, reflecting more than just her features. She turns away, there is no curiosity in her eyes.
She balances the box carefully on the railings, runs her hand over it as she might an old, familiar lover, eyes closed. She knows the grain, as familiar as her own fingerprints, or the lines which map over the palm of her hand. The wood is warmer than she is, containing the warmth of better memories. They flow from the wood into her hand, the voice is clear, as though he were standing right beside her.
“I made this for you”
She turns; is it him, or a trick of the light? She shakes her head, it is too easy to be deceived by this devious landscape. The sun shimmers from a multitude of mirrors creating the appearance of movement, like the shadow of someone walking behind glass. But this is a place without evidence of life, and she blends in. It wasn’t always so. Perhaps it was the sound of his voice, so close, she thought she had forgotten. How could she forget? Her body, now numb with cold and sadness, remembers him. Her ears betray her, she can’t keep him out.
*
“Jump!”
It was summer. Shivering she stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. The drop was 20, maybe 25 feet into the churning waves. He splashed in the water, laughing, mocking her hesitation, bobbing with easy confidence.
“Come on, the water’s lovely”
He waved his arms, beckoning her in. Even from this distance she could sense his smile, warming her more than the unhindered sun. She couldn’t resist his call, and though her better judgement screamed in disapproval she took some steps back then, without time to think of the possibility of rocks, she took a run and leapt.
Her body sliced into the water. It was a shock, the instantaneous cold contrasting with the heat of the summer air. She flailed, confused and searching, searching for the surface. The water swirled around her in devious eddies, darker than she was used to. She began to panic, lost in the bubbles and the waves, an uncompromising environment determined to keep her. Fighting the water she reached out blindly, desperately, found something solid to grab onto and with all her might pulled. She broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from her hair into her eyes. Two arms grabbed her, his laughter rose above the rasping of her breath. She clung to him unashamed, pressing her face against the warm familiarity of his sea-salted skin, eyes closed, just feeling. They remained, for a moment, two corks bobbing in the water, gently rocked by the motion of the waves.
It was often this way, as though he carried within him the gentle pull of the ocean, an indescribable yearning that called for silent reflection. It was this that attracted her to him. They had met just a few weeks ago. She had been walking on the beach thinking, as she often did, about nothing in particular. He was stood facing the ocean, out of reach of the waves, staring towards the distant horizon. The sky split between a fading blue and the spilling yolk of the sun, and in between every shade of red. She hesitated, distracted momentarily by the sun’s dying display, and he turned with unexpected fluidity. With that one easy movement the earlier part of her life had been erased, and since then they had spent every moment together.
She wiped wet strands of hair from her eyes and pulled back, looking into his eyes. They were the colour of the water equally unreadable, their depths indeterminable. The endless darkness of his pupils carried the memory of nights lay in darkness together, as she moaned beneath him and her sense of self-will evaporated with the sweat from their bodies. She would hold him against her body, afraid he would slip away, lick the sweat from his skin, taste the salt, and wonder if he was a man or some kind of mythical creature, a sea sprite in human form. His body carried the scent, the quality of the sea, and through the sea he entered her becoming a part of her blood, her veins. But if he was the ocean, she was the moon. They were bound by the laws of physics, inseparable and as timeless as the universe.
He interrupted her thoughts with a smile.
‘What are you thinking?’
She shook her head, nothing.
‘Come on, I’ve got something to show you,’ he pointed ‘over there…’
He let her go, turned around and began to swim with long, confident strokes towards a rocky outcropping some way in the distance. She followed, slower, still shaken from the almost forgotten almost drowning. She soon lost sight of him, he became a mere ripple in the distance then, nothing. Her thoughts became focussed on her own laboured breathing, the tiredness that seeped in with the cold and her less competent swimming. Eventually she pulled herself onto the rocks and lay there for a few moments warming her limbs which had become numb with cold. She waited for him to join her, perhaps flick water on her face, or shower her with kisses depending on his mood. But he didn’t. Moments passed, too long to be insignificant. She pulled herself upright onto shaky legs and carefully negotiated her way around the outcropping. The rocks burned her feet, and she walked carefully avoiding the sharp places. There was no sign of him. On the other side of the outcropping she found a box, hand-carved by an uncertain hand. Attached to it, a note. ‘I made this for you’…
*
She waited for hours, until it became dark and she was forced to return to the mainland alone. He was never found. Later he was declared legally dead, but she was not so sure. Perhaps she had been right and the sea had only allowed him temporary human form, eventually taking back what had been given, absorbing him back into the cold depths carrying the warmth of her love for him. Now she had no warmth left, he had taken it all.
There was no need to look in the box, she knew what it contained. A lifetime. A life. It seemed so little. Without ceremony she tips it into the water. The sea takes it with a satisfied gulp then returns to its still contemplation, and though it seemed placid on the surface she knew that beneath it all the sea was churning, that as the box sank deeper and deeper the fishes would nip and worry it until, by the time it reached the bottom, little trace of it would remain. It was that easy, to erase a past, a present, a future. She stared into the sea. The sea winked back a perfect co-conspirator; it would never tell. She took one last look at the lifeless landscape then turned and walked back inside knowing that nothing, nothing else mattered.
The sea is gentle today, quiet and mysterious. There’s hardly a trace of movement on the surface just a slight ripple where the water meets the angled edge of the ship and the ice sheets barely visible on the distant horizon. They seem to melt into the sky, encapsulating the alien landscape in a continuous grey-white dome. She stands in the centre of it all, trapped like a character in a snow globe though she is not smiling, as they do. She waits for something on the outside to shake things up, send the snow spiralling around her until she is buried in a shower of flakes, and there she will remain, unbending as moulded plastic, frozen in this frozen place.
She is engulfed in a large, quilted coat, the hood is up and her bare, unreadable face looks out, her eyes focussed somewhere in the distance, somewhere, elsewhere. She walks gingerly on legs unused to sea travel and with some distrust as though, despite the calmness of the water, it could turn at any time, and with a sudden pitch toss her over the side. She is the only paying passenger on this expedition. The others avoid her, as she avoids them, meeting only at mealtimes and, occasionally, in the thin passageways. She turns away so as not to see the curiosity in their eyes. She hasn’t spoken since arriving on board.
In her hand she holds a small wooden box. The rough edges suggest that it has been made by an uncertain hand, and is somewhat old. She carries it as though it were a small child, tucked carefully under her arm, protected from the biting cold. It is a simple box, thickly varnished with two small golden clasps holding it closed. They are delicate against the blockish wood and seem too frail to contain the contents. She rubs her finger against one, absent-mindedly, her thoughts elsewhere.
She arrives at the railings and stops, breathless from the cold rather than exertion. She stands, for a moment, drawing herself with some difficulty back to the present. The light is painful on her eyes which, until now, have not registered the sparse environment; she opens them fully allowing it to flood in. It changes nothing, even pain is meaningless. Her whole being is scar tissue, cut off from the nervous system that decays like old, disused roads. She stares into the sea, her face stares back, blank, impassive. The water is so still it is a perfect mirror, reflecting more than just her features. She turns away, there is no curiosity in her eyes.
She balances the box carefully on the railings, runs her hand over it as she might an old, familiar lover, eyes closed. She knows the grain, as familiar as her own fingerprints, or the lines which map over the palm of her hand. The wood is warmer than she is, containing the warmth of better memories. They flow from the wood into her hand, the voice is clear, as though he were standing right beside her.
“I made this for you”
She turns; is it him, or a trick of the light? She shakes her head, it is too easy to be deceived by this devious landscape. The sun shimmers from a multitude of mirrors creating the appearance of movement, like the shadow of someone walking behind glass. But this is a place without evidence of life, and she blends in. It wasn’t always so. Perhaps it was the sound of his voice, so close, she thought she had forgotten. How could she forget? Her body, now numb with cold and sadness, remembers him. Her ears betray her, she can’t keep him out.
*
“Jump!”
It was summer. Shivering she stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. The drop was 20, maybe 25 feet into the churning waves. He splashed in the water, laughing, mocking her hesitation, bobbing with easy confidence.
“Come on, the water’s lovely”
He waved his arms, beckoning her in. Even from this distance she could sense his smile, warming her more than the unhindered sun. She couldn’t resist his call, and though her better judgement screamed in disapproval she took some steps back then, without time to think of the possibility of rocks, she took a run and leapt.
Her body sliced into the water. It was a shock, the instantaneous cold contrasting with the heat of the summer air. She flailed, confused and searching, searching for the surface. The water swirled around her in devious eddies, darker than she was used to. She began to panic, lost in the bubbles and the waves, an uncompromising environment determined to keep her. Fighting the water she reached out blindly, desperately, found something solid to grab onto and with all her might pulled. She broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from her hair into her eyes. Two arms grabbed her, his laughter rose above the rasping of her breath. She clung to him unashamed, pressing her face against the warm familiarity of his sea-salted skin, eyes closed, just feeling. They remained, for a moment, two corks bobbing in the water, gently rocked by the motion of the waves.
It was often this way, as though he carried within him the gentle pull of the ocean, an indescribable yearning that called for silent reflection. It was this that attracted her to him. They had met just a few weeks ago. She had been walking on the beach thinking, as she often did, about nothing in particular. He was stood facing the ocean, out of reach of the waves, staring towards the distant horizon. The sky split between a fading blue and the spilling yolk of the sun, and in between every shade of red. She hesitated, distracted momentarily by the sun’s dying display, and he turned with unexpected fluidity. With that one easy movement the earlier part of her life had been erased, and since then they had spent every moment together.
She wiped wet strands of hair from her eyes and pulled back, looking into his eyes. They were the colour of the water equally unreadable, their depths indeterminable. The endless darkness of his pupils carried the memory of nights lay in darkness together, as she moaned beneath him and her sense of self-will evaporated with the sweat from their bodies. She would hold him against her body, afraid he would slip away, lick the sweat from his skin, taste the salt, and wonder if he was a man or some kind of mythical creature, a sea sprite in human form. His body carried the scent, the quality of the sea, and through the sea he entered her becoming a part of her blood, her veins. But if he was the ocean, she was the moon. They were bound by the laws of physics, inseparable and as timeless as the universe.
He interrupted her thoughts with a smile.
‘What are you thinking?’
She shook her head, nothing.
‘Come on, I’ve got something to show you,’ he pointed ‘over there…’
He let her go, turned around and began to swim with long, confident strokes towards a rocky outcropping some way in the distance. She followed, slower, still shaken from the almost forgotten almost drowning. She soon lost sight of him, he became a mere ripple in the distance then, nothing. Her thoughts became focussed on her own laboured breathing, the tiredness that seeped in with the cold and her less competent swimming. Eventually she pulled herself onto the rocks and lay there for a few moments warming her limbs which had become numb with cold. She waited for him to join her, perhaps flick water on her face, or shower her with kisses depending on his mood. But he didn’t. Moments passed, too long to be insignificant. She pulled herself upright onto shaky legs and carefully negotiated her way around the outcropping. The rocks burned her feet, and she walked carefully avoiding the sharp places. There was no sign of him. On the other side of the outcropping she found a box, hand-carved by an uncertain hand. Attached to it, a note. ‘I made this for you’…
*
She waited for hours, until it became dark and she was forced to return to the mainland alone. He was never found. Later he was declared legally dead, but she was not so sure. Perhaps she had been right and the sea had only allowed him temporary human form, eventually taking back what had been given, absorbing him back into the cold depths carrying the warmth of her love for him. Now she had no warmth left, he had taken it all.
There was no need to look in the box, she knew what it contained. A lifetime. A life. It seemed so little. Without ceremony she tips it into the water. The sea takes it with a satisfied gulp then returns to its still contemplation, and though it seemed placid on the surface she knew that beneath it all the sea was churning, that as the box sank deeper and deeper the fishes would nip and worry it until, by the time it reached the bottom, little trace of it would remain. It was that easy, to erase a past, a present, a future. She stared into the sea. The sea winked back a perfect co-conspirator; it would never tell. She took one last look at the lifeless landscape then turned and walked back inside knowing that nothing, nothing else mattered.