We Float Upon a Painted Sea

While Bull slept Andrew tried to catch a fish for dinner. Fishing kept his mind off the ravishing hunger pains. In the half-light he cast his line into the still sea and reeled the lure back. He wondered if there were any fish within the vicinity of the raft. He thought of the sharks and why they had attacked them. The floor of the raft acted like a large sump, filled with stale saltwater and blood from Malcolm’s festering wound. He wondered if this was the reason why the sharks had arrived, attracted by the scent of blood. He thought of the soiled bandages he had thrown overboard. After an hour of fruitless endeavour he gathered up his tackle and lay back against one of the undamaged pontoons. Odd, he thought, no stars shining in a rare clear obsidian sky. With the canopy lowered, he was free of the claustrophobic conditions and the smell of Malcolm’s putrefying wound. He tilted his head back and adjusted his ears to the rhythm of the palpitating sea. A stiff wind picked up. It buffeted the raft, making it spin and move at pace. For an instant it felt like they were changing their direction. Initially, he was overwhelmed by a feeling like he was on a canoe, heading down river at speed and towards the rapids. The elements were working in harmony, he thought, colluding to draw them closer to their destiny.

His eyes settled on the damaged pontoon. He considered events from earlier in the day and how he had reacted. Andrew contemplated their perilous situation but concluded at least they were still alive. He wondered why they hadn’t encountered a search and rescue drone. There had been no sightings from overhead. Surely, it hadn’t gone unnoticed one of the life-rafts from the Andrea Starlight was not accounted for. Surely, there was someone looking for them? Perhaps they were presumed dead and they went down with the ship. They had to stay alive until the picture became clearer. They had shelter, drinking water, since the morning deluge of rain, and they were now heading in a delineated direction. Continuing to drift aimlessly would have reduced any hope of finding land or a shipping lane. It was their only realistic chance of survival. He was still concerned by their lack of food and Malcolm’s deteriorating condition. The perpetual wetness was once a minor irritation but the blisters on his skin had developed into sores. But above all, the damage to the raft was his major worry. Bull’s emergency patch-up job was keeping them afloat for now, but he was fearful of falling asleep and waking up to find they were sinking.

Andrew shifted uncomfortably in his wet seat. The colour of the sky was changing. Clouds were reforming. Where was the moon, he thought. He had not expected the temperature to drop so quickly. All around him hung a gloom, empty and daunting. He was becoming increasingly distracted by the sound of Bull’s somniloquy. His nocturnal mutterings made no sense but the tone and disturbed nature of his words put a shiver down his spine. As the night drew on Bull began to scream out - a high pitched wail, followed by a bout of violent head twitching and leg thrashing. Andrew decided the time was right to rouse him from his nightmare. He knelt over Bull and slapped him on the face. Andrew said, “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.” Bull was dazed. He struggled to regulate his breathing and whimpered for a few moments. He gasped,

“Saffron? Where am I? I’m wet. It’s so cold.” Andrew slapped his face once more but harder this time. Enjoying the sensation, he said,

“You’re having a nightmare.” Bull’s eyelids hung like two sacks of coal and his voice slurred like a drunk. He mumbled,

“Must have had a nightmare. I dreamt I was with Saffron.”

“Was she your partner? Your wife? Your sister?”

“She was pregnant but it wasn’t my baby. It was Maurice’s child.”

“So not your sister, although if you were from certain parts of Ayrshire…” Bull ignored Andrew’s feeble joke. He spoke as if in a trance. He tried to raise his hands to his head but his arms were weak and unable to complete the move. They wilted by his side. Andrew adjusted Bull’s woollen bobble hat and attempted to feign interest. Bull said,

“I’m pathetic. I couldn’t even take care of a terrapin.” Andrew raised his hand to slap Bull’s face again, but instead he said,

“Sorry, but I’m not following any of this. Can’t it wait until the morning?” Bull’s breathing was becoming slower but heavier. Andrew poured a shot of Talisker into one of the tennis ball cups and put it under Bull’s bottom lip. He said, “This will help you sleep.” Sipping the whisky Bull said,

“We were back on the narrowboat, but all was not right. There were other forces at work. Things you couldn’t see. Some you could.” Andrew looked around as if pleading with Malcolm for support. “Well you’re safe now, floating on a half inflated raft somewhere in the North Atlantic. Only tangible concepts such as the freezing to death, the possibility of drowning or being eaten alive by sea creatures to fuss over here.”

“I’m ok now. I just feel groggy. Thanks for asking.” Andrew looked around in confusion to see if there was someone else on the raft apart from Malcolm. Bull’s eyes turned to white once more and with a feeble hand, he grabbed hold of Andrew’s sleeve. His words were slurred. “It was mouldy and damp. The floor was wet. Smelled of rotting flesh. The boat was decomposing. Everywhere was infested with flies and larvae, sprouting out of the woodwork, in the night, when I was asleep. They swarmed over my face, suffocating me, crawling into every orifice. My body was paralysed.” Andrew lifted his eyes to the sky and yawned,

“Well these narrowboats are fashionable these days but many do carry wood boring infestations, it has to be said. There’s no chance of that happening on this raft. It’s made of plastic but it is still prone to the odd attack from a clumsy Englishman.” Andrew sat back against the pontoon and stretched his legs out. In the darkness he could barely make out Bull’s form until the moon reappeared and then he could see him, cowering in the wind and rocking in time with the raft. Andrew sat back against the pontoon. He continued listening to Bull’s account of his nightmare. Bull said,

“Saffron went into labour. I tried to call an ambulance, but the line was dead. I had to deliver the baby myself. I tried to boil water but when I turned on the taps, the water was green. I used a bowl of cheap moonshine to sterilise everything. The towels were wet. Covered in slime. Saffron cried. An excruciating scream. She held onto my wrist and twisted the skin. I couldn’t stand the pain. I pulled back my hand and she pushed me away. She delivered the baby herself. The child lay there, silent and still. Matted in blood and mucus.”

“All babies are born into the world this way,” muttered Andrew.

“It was covered in thick black hair. It was a hideous creature.” Andrew tried to smile. He said,

“Are you sure the mother is not from Ayrshire?”

“Saffron began breast feeding it. I asked her to stop. She started mocking me, laughing at me. The creature stopped feeding and turned to face me. It pointed a twisted finger at me. It was old and wrinkled. It spoke in a language I couldn’t understand.”

“Most likely standard English.” Bull began to rock back and forth in a metronomic motion. Once more Andrew gazed to the heavens, as if seeking divine intervention. The moon slipped behind a band of cloud, plunging them into complete darkness. Andrew could only just hear Bull’s voice above the sound of the waves slapping against the raft. Bull said,

“The wind began to howl. The narrowboat started to shake. A tremor ran the length of it. The boat crumbled into the canal. I tried to piece it together but I failed. The water started to rise. It was around my waist and then my neck. I was under the water. The boat sunk further and further down into the deep. There were boxes, and furniture blocking my way out. At last I found an opening and floated to the surface. I swam around searching for Saffron, but I couldn’t find her. It was so dark. The street lights were out. And then a bolt of lightning lit up the sky and I saw her. She and hairy child were walking along the moorings. They were leaving me alone in the canal. I called out, but she didn’t look back. Someone was waiting for them under the bridge, and then they disappeared into the darkness. I floated, treading water and then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a dense blanket of mist rolling on top of the canal. As it crept closer, I could see thousands of small bodies writhing inside it. And then it engulfed me. I was blinded by the mist. It stung my eyes. Icould feel their presence around me. I could feel their cold breath on my skin. I tried to shout but tiny hands stretched out to cover my mouth.”

Andrew nodded like a psychiatrist chasing the clock down until it reached the end of the session and he would no longer have to listen to the monotone voice in the darkness. The wind chilled the nape of his neck. Bull seemed almost invisible now. He wanted him to stop talking. He wanted to erect the canopy back into position, but he felt stiff and immobile. It would have to wait until first light, he thought. Bull continued to talk, in-between taking deep breaths and sips of whisky. He continued, “I managed to peel their emaciated hands from my mouth. I wanted to swim but I couldn’t get my muscles to work, and then a red light appeared from underneath, illuminating thousands of naked bodies. They swam around me, and below, in the deep, as far as my eyes could see. They carried me under the surface, wailing and crying out, saying they were the drowned children of the world. They were the victims of the floods, the abandoned, and the washed away. They pulled at my limbs, tore my clothes, ripped into my skin with their fingernails. They drew blood. It seemed to excite them. I was paralysed and helpless. They dragged me further down. One grabbed my head, turning my face towards hers, forcing me to look into her dead black eyes. There, I saw an image of children struggling in a quagmire of mud, made to work while fat pigs in suits watched them from the safety of a hill. Then a loud muffled bellow sounded way down deep in the bowels of the earth. The children stopped. Some began to howl. Some became excited. The waters began to bubble. A voice whispered in my mind, telling me their lot was one of everlasting agony and they said I was to meet him.”

In the darkness, Andrew could only make out the whites of Bull’s eyes.

“Him?” said Andrew, trying to swallow a lump in his throat. Bull’s speech was now ponderous and taking on a malevolent tone. He mumbled,

“The Walker has crossed the ninth wave. He’s coming for a mortal. You can’t escape him. Once he’s left the Otherworld and crossed the ninth wave, he will find you. There is no flight. The Walker is abroad. The Walker is abroad.” Andrew shivered. He pulled the collar of his shirt up to cover his neck and said,

“The Otherworld? The Ninth Wave? How do you know about that?” Andrew drew his head closer as if trying to collect the last few garbled words from a dying man, but Bull had fallen back to sleep. Andrew normally dismissed ancient myths as superstition and the antithesis of the Presbyterian upbringing bestowed upon him. He had always believed in spiritual salvation in the afterlife, but he could not resolve the beguiling concept of his soul existing in a celestial eternity, with the philosophy of the paranormal. He had been brought up by his father to dismiss such mystical notions as superstitious nonsense, and challenge his grandmother’s fables, but there always remained a residual doubt.

Andrew sat in silence, wondering if it was by chance or design Bull also knew of this legend. He was overcome with an unearthly, disturbing feeling. He became infected with a sensation of someone or something staring at him from out in the sea, and now from inside the raft. Once more he wished he had put the canopy up before the darkness settled. He became aware of the sound and sensation of his heart pounding in his chest. His lips were dry and blistered from the constant exposure to the salt laden ocean winds, and his ears were attentive to every sound around him. Andrew had not touched alcohol for over a year but he could stand the withering thirst no longer. He had left the whisky by Bull’s side. In the pitch darkness he stretched out a groping hand to clutch the bottle but as he did he felt the soft wet fur of Bull’s discarded coat. Impulsively he jumped back in alarm. He fought off the emerging voices from his head. His hands crept out once more. He located the bottle and snatched it to his chest. He took tiny sips, stopping only to peer towards the sea. A voice came forth from the dark.

“You shouldn’t be scared.” Fear now gripped Andrew like a sharp winter frost, chilling him to the bone. This wasn’t Bull’s voice. Towards the aperture appeared the figure of a man resting against the damaged pontoon.

“Who or what type of demon are you,” stammered Andrew.

“What a strange question to ask,” replied the figure. “Do you like asking questions? I do. I have a few questions for you.”

“What questions?”

“Like where is this place?”

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s a raft. We’re floating on the sea.”

“Is it the painted sea?”

“What?” A prolonged moment of silence came and went. Andrew pressed his back as far into the pontoon as the pressure would allow. Finally he said, “Look, go away.” Andrew heard a baleful laugh and then the figure said,

“Look you say? I would look but, I – cannot - see. I was asleep and now I – cannot – see! Who are you voice in the dark?”

For a fleeting moment the darkness seemed to lift. The clouds had parted once more and there was the comforting sight of a full moon. Andrew took his opportunity to locate the flares. His hand grasped one. It was still wet, but immediately he pulled the ripcord and fired it off into the night sky. He turned to view the exposed figure, but the illumination filled him with new dread. The figure had vanished but his eyes became transfixed towards the black ocean. More bleak thoughts circled in his mind. No previous experience had prepared him for the sight which unfolded in front of his eyes. Dark shapes surrounded the raft – tall and hooded, moving in the darkness amongst the waves. He was overcome with a feeling of spiralling dismay and foreboding. They drifted silently. He shut his eyes, hoping when they opened again, the malignant inventions would have vanished, like the figure in the darkness. The waxing moon illuminated obelisk shaped objects out in the sea, emerging on the surface of the water, circling the raft and then disappearing again. The wind whistled as it passed overhead, creating vortexes of air and turning the vessel like a carousel at a funfair. With every ellipse of the raft, the objects appeared nearer. His hands trembled with fear.

Black, hooded forms surrounded the raft. Strangest of all, amongst the host was a white shrouded figure, its black companions appearing to rally around, as if protecting it. “Their leader,” thought Andrew. He felt like his eyes were conspiring with his imagination to deceive and to torture his nervous system. The clouds returned and the shapes began to fade, but to his horror, a large splash sounded close to the raft. Andrew stiffened. He wondered if Bull or Malcolm had fallen overboard, worse still, taken by one of the hooded forms. He could see little in the darkness. He was awash with negative emotions. The sea was his prison and nature his jailer, unwilling to let him go and each new day, it devised fresh ways to torture him and to make him lose his mind.

A growling noise sounded nearby. Andrew was rigid with fear. His eyes remained focused on the spot where Bull lay sleeping, but he couldn’t be sure of anything. He imagined a creature, breathing heavily and curled up only inches from his feet. Convincing himself he could detect a pungent, animal odour, like wet fur, he reeled in his legs and tucked his knees under his chin. For an instant, he drew his eyes to the surface of the pulsating black mass, of which, by day, he recognised as the sea. Nothing appeared as it should be anymore, thought Andrew. The overwhelming feeling of several thousand metres of sea water beneath their flimsy vessel, expedited his dread. Until now, he hadn’t contemplated the cold depth and darkness of the ocean. He thought of all the strange contorted creatures existing at pressures unbearable to humans. He thought of the water in the oceanic trenches, unaffected by the motion of the waves above, and remaining stagnant for thousands of years like a maritime soup.

The initial elation of avoiding death when he survived the sinking of the ship, and the shark attack the previous night, was a distant memory. A gastric rock of fear continued to rise up inside his gut. Andrew’s brain battled to make sense of the situation and stay in control against an incoming tide of despair. He entertained an erroneous image of him being swarmed by the figments of his own hallucinations, unable to stave off the frenzied attack and being dragged down to the extremity of the deep green sea. He yearned for any object with no association with the sea. He thought of trees and mountains but in his mind the trees turned to flotsam and the mountains into foam crested waves. The imminence of insanity was falling upon him. He visualised happier times, moments of joy shared in the first few months after meeting Ashley. A serene moment, holding her hand as they attended a Jan Fabre exhibition at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery called the Blue Hour. The relief was brief. He recalled the inspiration behind the art forms – the blue hour was a moment of residual light, circling around the time which exists somewhere between light and dark - what artists call the sweet light as it spilled across the earth, and what the Celts believed was the opening of a gate to the Otherworld. Was the visitation from a supernatural realm, he thought. He wanted to raise the bottle of Talisker to his lips and drink, but his muscles were debilitated and his joints felt arthritic. He could do no more than sit upright, keep his eyes unfastened and stare.

He recalled more stories from his Grandmother. She had spoken of the ninth wave, a mystical barrier which divides the lands of the mortals from the land of the dead, of how it lay somewhere between the ocean and the Isles of Paradise, where suffering and contempt are absent and how these were lands inhabited by immortal beings. Between dusk and dawn an immortal would come forth and return with a soul. Had Bull experienced a premonition? Was “The Walker” his visitation? Had he come for him? Was this the end and now was the time for his redemption? Were they already dead and this was some form of Purgatory? Andrew wrestled with his galloping psychosis. He even wondered if he had already crossed over the ninth wave into the Otherworld. Ashley’s voice raced through his brain like a herd of wild horses to save him from the brink. Oh don’t be so ridiculous, would you listen to yourself man. Have you gone quite mad? There is no such thing as an Otherworld or spirits crossing from other dimensions. Andrew’s Mother now joined in the discussion. Poppycock, balderdash and country bumpkin talk! Only a fool would listen to your grandmother’s fairy tales. For once I have to agree with the skinny chain smoking bitch. You are barking mad my boy if you believe in such nonsense...

Engaged in an harmonious dance, with the white shrouded figure always in the middle, the shrouded figures continued to congregate around the raft. He imagined the safety of home in a fruitless attempt to counteract his conscious nightmare. If only he could get one last chance to make his life good, he thought. He would beg Ashley’s forgiveness for acting like a maniac, he would kiss his children’s foreheads one last time, smell their sweet skin and cradle them in his arms. If only God would take pity on him, show him divine mercy by allowing him one last chance to resolve the issues in his life.

All night he stayed awake, watching his breath condense before him and staring back and forth from the sea to the far side of the raft where he wanted to believe Bull lay sleeping. He waited for his assailants to end their tormenting game and finally attack en masse, but curiously they kept their distance. He passed the hours praying for the sun to rise, to see the diurnal illumination of daybreak and to stare into a liminal world. The gates to the Otherworld would close and his life would be spared.

Andrew cursed Bull and castigated himself for waking him from his nightmare. He denigrated his grandmother’s superstitions, and then he began to feel sick. His mind was beginning to ferment in new depths of paranoia, twisting interminably with fresh inventions to explain away the images in front of him. He cursed the manufacturers of the raft for not properly securing the emergency pack, for not making the pontoons resistant to being punctured by a sharp multi-tool and for not making the satellite responder more robust. He cursed them for not providing rations, for surely the lack of food was driving this hallucination. He wondered if he could send a letter of complaint to them from the Otherworld.

Later, he became conscious of the changing colour of the sky, now holding some of the diffracted light from the other side of the planet. The blackness dissolved and faded to a grey, and the sun poured its red light onto the seascape. He watched as the warm glow cast off the darkness and spread out on the emerging horizon. He concentrated his listless eyes on the shapes, refusing to disappear back to their Otherworld. The light increased by the second and Andrew found his mystical apparitions unveiled as a pod of killer whales. He sighed, “Oh thank God, thank you God.” The reprieve was short lived. Andrew now faced a more rational, earthly fear as he contemplated the prospect of the whales ramming against the raft. He looked towards where Bull lay, curled up sleeping in his white, faux fur coat and foil blanket, still snoring like a hibernating bear. He was, for the first time, glad to see his face. Malcolm still lay motionless like a crash-test dummy, but at least he was still alive. The pod of whales continued to swim only metres from the raft. It was obvious to Andrew the shrouded figures had been the shapes of their large dorsal fins rising in and out of the water. In the middle of the pod there was one white fin. Andrew stared in disbelief. His mouth was cast wide open, aghast at the sight of an abomination of nature, he thought. He wondered if his eyes were still playing tricks on him, but as Bull awoke and joined him on his side of the raft, he too could see the white orca. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost mate,” said Bull.

“It feels like I have. It’s a pod of whales. They’ve been following us all night. Do you see the one in the middle of them? The white one. I’ve been staring at it all night.”

“Is that your ghost? A ghost orca? An interesting thought. Perhaps the other whales don’t even realise that it travels with them? Perhaps the ghost whale doesn’t even know it is dead, itself.”

“It’s been a long night. I’m in no mood for your banter.”

“You would insist in leaving the canopy down and staring at the sea. Seriously, that will be that albino killer whale that’s been in the news lately. It’s been spotted a few times but some marine scientists say it’s not possible, but it clearly is. Shows you what they know.” Andrew’s nerves were still raw and on edge. He said,

“Don’t killer whales ram small boats thinking they are seals?” Bull put a comforting hand on Andrew’s shoulder and said,

“They would have probably attacked us by now if they had wanted to. There are two types of killer whale - one hunts fish and the other sea mammals. I think these are fish eaters so I think we’ll be alright. Maybe the raft has attracted some fish and that’s why they are following us?”

“There was something else, when you were asleep, there was…”

“What?”

“It was nothing. I need to sleep. Can you take the look out?”

Bull erected the canopy. He crept towards the aperture to take up his position as look out for the morning. The pulse of the sea was beating faster and harder. Waves pounded the raft. He gazed out, watching as the light of the morning drained from the sky. On the horizon there lay a black wall of cloud. He spent the day counting the elapsing seconds between the forks of lightning cascading down the skyline and the rolling claps of thunder. A storm was approaching.