Writings from Castle Town: October 2019

The two lighthouses winked out their warnings. Their characters were not synchronous, but every few minutes, their signals coincided. The skies above were ink black, but a veil of innumerable stars stretched from horizon to horizon. A gentle swell ran ashore, culminating in an almost apologetic 'plop' as each wave ran out onto the sand. Shells were briefly carried up, but then rapidly streamed down with the returning tide. No wind blew that night. The marram grass in the dunes stood still, not a blade bent in the cold night air. The birds of the sea were quiet. To the southeast, low over the tops of the dunes lining the beach, Orion's belt rose into the sky, followed by the stars of the winter night. When Sirius appeared, the scene was set. A shadow appeared on the rim of the dunes.

Well past midnight. The streetlights had long since gone off, and only the odd light shone from some of the houses. Each stood alone in its own patch of land, never far from the rocky shore. The sea lapped ashore, but there was no discernible sound. Sheep lay asleep, some in the tarmac of the roadway, as if to absorb some latent warmth. The day had been sunny, but only for a few hours, and had long given way to the night. Stars winked over the water to the east, and outlined the bulk of low hills in the background. A lonely car slowly purred its way through the township, presently pulling up outside one of the houses. The two occupants alighted, slammed the doors shut and walked up to a house. Their voices carried on the still night air, before they disappeared inside and were shut in behind a door. A cow lowed in the distance. Navigational beacons blinked offshore, marking the hazardous passage. The lights in one house were presently extinguished. Nearby, cats from the township prowled in the undergrowth. A shadow disappeared, as Sirius rose in the southeast.

The last light faded to the southwest, as warm airs wafted ashore. The ocean swell ran ashore, inexorably, as it had done since time immemorial, and would still be doing beyond the age of man. A sward of sand ran the length of the coast, for hundreds of miles. Groups of people sat outside, enjoying the late spring warmth, quietly enjoying a pint or a glass, munching a few bites to eat. A few intrepid souls were out in the waves, as wisps of high cloud wafted slowly by. Lights went on in the beach side cafes, and the houses beyond. The stars of the south came out as the sunlight whisked off west, with Orion's belt almost overhead, Sirius not far below. Although Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, Canopus, some way below it, is a good second. Oh, the two lighthouses would never see it. Neither would the scattered township of sheep and marram grass.

The wind started to blow, bending the blades of the marram grass towards the northeast. The swell slowly rose, until the beach was fringed with white foam. Seaweed was pushed ashore, gathering up just beyond the tideline, as the tide began to fall. Beyond the dunes, the flat lands stretched towards the hills lining the horizon. As the sun rose, bird calls punctuated the start of the winter's day. Vestiges of green remained, a memory of or promise towards summer. Dark browns and dull yellows reminded of the current season, winter. No one moved, although as the tide fell, a line of footprints began to emerge from the dunes.
The sand swirled into the dunes from the beach, whipped up by the strong winds blowing in from the ocean. The footprints were soon lost from sight, covered by seaweed, filled in by sand or washed away by the surf. Beyond the dunes, the houses stood in their scattered loneliness, almost bowed down into the winter gale. They looked out over the pristine curve of the beach, beyond which the tower of the lighthouse rose to the west, and further islands loomed on the horizon. The roads lay empty, with few venturing out. Best to hunker down, and wait for the winds to abate.

The cold wind howled in from the north, winter on its last legs, but reluctant to relinquish its hold. In frustration, it threw hailstones across the landscape. Rain lashed down, horizontally, as the wind ramped up to galeforce. Shaking the bare branches of the rowantrees, it thundered in the chimneys and whistled in the telegraph wires. The landscape was once more wiped into a curtain of grey, through which a lonely shadow appeared. It turned a corner, upon which the sun suddenly flashed through the clouds, splashing colour across the fields - but only for a moment.

With a whimper, the storm faded away and the sun finally came out. Not for long, it was westering already. The road was empty. The rowan tree did not dare stand up straight, best be prepared for the next onslaught. Some stories they have to tell, do the old rowans. You'll find them around a lot round here. Always on the windward side of a house, sheltering it from our perennial gales. Sometimes, you'll see a rowan tree near just a heap of stones, or a chimney stack. All that is left of what once was a home. The rainwater trickled down the drains on either side of the road. A car whizzed past, splashing up spray from the earlier rain. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, shadows grew long.
In the last light of the day, the wind whispered through the grass. Where previously, there had been colour, now only outlines remained. A sheep, a cow. Fence posts, sometimes leaning at precarious angles. Abandoned bath tubs and various pieces of agricultural machinery, rusting into the ground. The contours of the hills stood out darkly against the skyline. As daylight faded altogether, the wind sighed through the branches of the rowan. A shadow flitted towards the house.

The rowan's bare boughs flexed in the wind, unseen in the darkness. Stars now shone brightly overhead as the moon sank towards the western horizon. The two lighthouses blinked, every few minutes in unison as their characters coincided. Some would say that a rowan would tell stories, tales of the families that had lived their lives in the house by which it stood. And, more often than not, a family would move away. Overseas, across the oceans. The rowan would lament their departure, telling their story to the wind, its anguish at their leaving and its hope for a return. Even as the house lost its roof, its windows, its walls - the rowan would grow tall. But here, the house stands firm in the teeth of the winter storms. The rowan shelters it, and hears the stories of its people.

The door fell shut. Darkness reigned, under a myriad of stars. Nothing moved in the house. From one of the neighbouring properties, the faint sound of music rose into the night sky. Although there was no streetlighting, the path was clear to see. So often, torches and streetlamps just dazzle. The shadow disappeared down the roadway, and a profound silence ensued. The rowan shivered in the night breeze.

Canopus and Sirius rose high in the spring sky as the swell ran ashore. Music rang out from the waterside bars and restaurants, while some people cavorted in the waves at the water's edge. Although darkness had long since fallen, the warmth of the day remained. Groups of people remained outside, talking softly into the night. A shadow moved among them, unseen, unperceived. It presently disappeared towards the strand - did it go into the sea?

Was it an echo, or imagination? Lively music spilled from brightly lit windows, left open in spite of the coolness of the night. Dancers swirled around the floor to familiar strains, whilst musicians and singers took turns. The House of Music. The moon shone in the western sky, highlighting the bare branches of the rowan. As if through coincidence, one of the singers launched into a song about the moon, which would light the way. A cloud rolled across the face of the westering moon, and the music faded. Only the sound of the Atlantic surf remained, carried inland on the mild night breeze. It blew through the branches of the rowan, swaying them as if it was telling a tale. A tale of the House of Music.

Stars scattered across the heavenly dome as if painted with brush strokes. That night, it did not matter where they were viewed from, it was a dazzling display. A shooting star completed the spectacle. It was past midnight, but time was not of the essence. The waves of the ocean thundered ashore, and the nightwind rustled in the blades of grass. The light in the house went out, after a little black shadow jumped out of a window. Off for its nightly foray for rodents. Not long after, although temporally irrelevant, the door opened. For moment, the shadow stopped to look round. There would be no return. Sensing those spiritually close, even if geographically distant in many cases, it reached out. With a smile, so familiar in life, it stepped down the road, a bounce soon turning into a dance. In daylight, a broad smile would have adorned its face. In this sphere, a singing voice would have been audible. Passing through the machair, it reached the dunes, and ran down to the water's edge. It stopped, for a final pause. The smile dropped, and the music faded. The little black shadow was suddenly startled by an inexplicable, searing sense of loss. Turning round for a final time to face the dunes, the shadow bade a silent farewell to this world.

The year's well-nigh full circle
Autumn's weighing us down once more
I have thought of you quite often
since you slipped away beyond the sea

I'm happy you were happy
doing what you did each day each week
your smile lighting up the little isle
and the beaches machair and the sea

Your voice lives on in all our minds
retained on-line for posterity
although it is stilled for good
we can remember you as if still there

You welcomed me into your home
the little cottage on the narrow road
talking into the darkness of
those cold but beautiful March nights

We shared a love of music
of the environment of these isles
a penchant for words and phrases
and for cats, black or whatever colour

Torran is still waiting, happy where she is
I know she misses you
not knowing where you went
you will meet again, one day, many moons from now

We parted after an evening of music
not knowing it was to be for good
It was touch and go - a hug and kiss
and off into the night you went

I'll always picture you 'front my mind's eye
in the sunshine of that March evening
flooding in through the Window of the West
with little Torran by your side

Swim strong, Sophia
Under the stars beyond this world
Sing on, Sophia, forever more
We'll meet again, when the time comes

Writings from Castle Town

Short story XXVI

Full circle

Memories