The Wind of Southmore

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.