We Float Upon a Painted Sea

It was early morning when Professor Burke’s TEV left the elevated automated highway and arrived in the centre of Edinburgh. He left the vehicle at the underground station car park and walked the empty streets. The city was somnolent and shrouded by a haar from the North Sea. The only sign of human activity was an Asian family fussing over a burst plastic bag of defrosting seafood. He walked towards Leith docks, indulging a lifelong habit of avoiding the pavement cracks as he went. He was hoping to find a café to pass some time before his meeting with Lúthien. In Leith Walk he came across a kiosk and spent some time flicking through a selection of global broadsheets on an old newspaper carousel. The owner of the kiosk watched him, slumped forward on his counter, his flabby breasts resting on a pile of cooking magazines, like two puffed up muffins. Finally the Professor selected several international newspapers and purchased them using the credit facility on the shackle the Elves had given him. The Professor bade the kiosk owner good morning and then shuffled towards Leith Docks. On the way a preacher approached him. He demanded in a loud voice,

“Will you accept the Lords of the New Church as your infinite authority on earth and the Bible as the infallible word of God?” The preacher followed him, brandishing his Bible like a primitive weapon. The Professor retreated down a side street and stumbling over his feet, he collided with a recycle bin. He looked up to see a neon sign. The Splurge Bucket. The preacher continued to shout at him. His voice booming in the alley, he shouted, “Turn your back on me if you like demon, but you cannot hide. The End Times are upon us my apostate familiar. You won’t find the answers to life’s problems at the bottom of a bottle. Drink is not the answer, drink is the devil’s buttermilk and you are his churner. Only the Lord has the answer. Repent before it’s too late.”

The Professor retreated into the brew shack and found a stool at the bar. He examined his newspapers for a mention of his story. He noticed the bartender approaching from the corner of his eye. He prepared for the monotony of exchanging pleasantries and ordering a beverage. He had entered a brew shack only once in his life, back when they were licensed and called pubs and only out of a need to seek shelter from the rain. On that particular occasion he felt obliged to buy a coffee. He looked behind the bar. There didn’t appear to be a coffee machine. His olfactory senses were not overcome by the rich aromas of roasted coffee beans, but rather the malodorous stench of stale ale, sweat and desiccated urine. He was unaccustomed to drinking this early in the morning but he was convinced asking to buy anything other than an alcoholic beverage would only bring unwanted interest. He surveyed the array of bottles hoping to locate a recognisable brand. The bartender stood over him, waiting for a response to his offer of assistance. Feeling under pressure he ordered a Bombay Sapphire gin. This was his favourite spirit. He imagined a scene at home, most definitely later in the day, relaxing at his desk, listening to his Grafonola gramophone and savouring subtle mixes of juniper berries, spices and citrus fruits. The bartender laughed, presenting his set of silver studs on his tongue. With an outstretched arm he introduced his collection of cheap moonshine stacked behind the bar. “We seem to be all out of the Bombay Sapphire today sir,” he said with strong, earthy suggestions of sarcasm. The Professor apologised. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and said,

“Just a whisky then please. Any brand will do.” The bartender smiled.

“There are two types of drink in here my friend. One is cheap and unregulated. The other has your fancy labels and government stamps and all the rest, but it’s expensive, although everything is expensive since the Change. Even then, there’s still no guarantee it’s authentic, if you get my drift. I can vouch for the poitín. I have my own still on the Islands.” The barman placed a coaster on the stainless steel plated bar and filled a glass with an amber liquor. The Professor considered the ambiguity of the unlabelled bottle. The initial results of his nasal assessment made his face wince. He considered the day ending in glycol induced blindness. He had heard tales of poitín, distilled in remote parts of the Outer Hebrides and sold to unscrupulous licensee owners after the Government trebled taxes on alcohol.

He raised the glass to the daylight and checked its clarity. Drinking through pursed lips, his face squirmed like a child being forced to take medicine. His cautious sipping noises started to catch the attention of other early morning drinkers. A few awkward glances were directed towards him. Finally he knocked the liquor back in one quick motion. The alcohol caught the back of his throat and he began to rasp. Curiously, he received a thumbs-up from an old man sitting at the end of the bar. He presumed he was old. His face was weathered but for all he knew, the poitín may have artificially aged him. Professor Burke punched his chest as if to act as an expectorant against his spasmodic fit and then, in an unconvincing wheezing voice, he ordered another glass. The bartender offered him a beaming smile. He said,

“That’ll wake you up in the morning eh?” He filled his glass and continued, “You’re not from round these parts. A tourist I take it? Don’t get many tourists this neck of the woods. You lost?” Professor Burke looked startled at the sudden inquisitiveness of the question. Instinctively, he remained silent but nodded his head. He began to scratch his goatee beard. He could feel beads of sweat congregate on his forehead, ready to burst and run the length of his face. The bartender continued to smile and his demeanour was progressively warming. He sensed the Professor’s uneasiness and not wanting to add to his discomfort, he elaborated, “I just mean we don’t get many customers in here as civil as you. I’m lucky if I even get a grunt for a pleasantry, never mind a tip. You’re different. Then again, most of them remember to take their hats off. You’re alright pal, I like your look. There’s not a lot of folk who feel confident enough to dress the way you do, not these days anyway, but as I said, you’re not from here.” Professor Burke blushed. He removed his hat, put it into his leather satchel and looked down at his khaki shorts, thick woollen socks and hill walking boots. He instantly regretted his choice of attire.

He picked up the Guardian and looked for his story. The newspaper was running a special edition dedicated to an inspired lecture by the Dalai Lama at the 2066 Earth 8 Summit. He addressed the leaders of the world’s largest industrialised nations on the subject of global warming. His speech condemned mankind’s materialistic obsessions and compared its relationship with Mother Earth to an unappreciative and immature grown man who still lives with his parents - someone who seldom helps with the bills, eats out of the fridge without ever replacing any of the food, throws dirty laundry wherever convenient, starts destructive fights and trashes the house with hedonistic parties. The Washington Post ran an article detailing how much carbon was used to fly the Dalai Lama to the summit.

Professor Burke downloaded some news feeds to his shackle and continued his search. With every new page his face became more etched with disappointment. Fumbling in his jacket pocket he found his handkerchief. He wiped his forehead and neck before ordering another glass of poitín. He was sure his recent actions had set the wheels in motion and the world would be waking up to the dramatic unravelling of his story. His newspaper search was turning out to be fruitless. The Professor gazed in amazement at the photographs of worldwide suffering: flooding, droughts, cyclones, world food shortages and victims of terrorist attacks. The Japan Times concentrated on the riots engulfing the country. La Repubblica concentrated on the street riots in Naples being brought to an end by flooding. The Italian Government had been unable to complete their flood defences on time and the newspaper’s editor suggested the sea had done a better job than the police water cannon.

He cleaned his spectacles with his handkerchief, downed his poitín and then noticed a television hanging behind the bar. There appeared to be a news report underway outside the Freedom Tower Conference Centre in New York. Professor Burke strained to hear the report from the news presenter over the background noise which was drowning her out. He caught the attention of the bartender who was busy explaining the concept behind one of his tattoos to a customer.

“Excuse me,” he said, “Would you mind turning the volume up on the television set, please?” The bartender, although initially irritated by the interruption, was warming to Professor Burke and his good manners. He hadn’t been spoken to so graciously for such a long time. The Professor’s courtesy had made him feel special for a brief but flirting moment.

“Sure thing ma man,” he replied, smiling coyly. “I’ve been meaning to upgrade to one of those fancy 3D projection sets but as you can see there’s not much money being generated in a dump like this.” An old man with a Hibernian baseball cap looked up from his table and slurred,

“Less eh the insults. This place is practically my home.” The barman shouted back,

“I’ll be charging you rent soon enough you old fud.” The Professor said,

“It’s fine. I’ve never taken to holographic projection technology myself. I find the parallax disconcerting.” The bartender looked blankly into the Professor’s face and then said,

“Another shot pal?” The voice on the television became more audible. Drinkers raised their heads. The bearded man at the end of the bar shouted out,

“Oh, hang on, I like her, she’s gorgeous!” The news presenter continued. “…who picks up the tab for global warming is the question on everyone’s lips. Well, it’s ironic I’m standing here outside this building, the Freedom Tower, a symbol of capitalism. It has been claimed by some the giant edifice was designed like a glass prism, beaming a solar glory of light towards the eastern horizon, acting as a sign of defiance to those who sought to destroy democracy. Does capitalism have an answer to this question? I have here with me a spokesman for the Green Movement, Dr Ma Xun. What are you expecting from the Earth 8 Summit, Dr Ma Xun?” The Doctor said,

“I don’t think the leaders of the free world can answer this question. This isn’t the first time they have gathered. We’ve been here before: Kyoto, Copenhagen, Paris, Lima, Berlin, and Wellington. History has taught us not to expect too much from politicians. And now we come to Manhattan. The world’s industrialised countries have been brought to the precipice of a global environmental cataclysm and forced to look down into the abyss, but the economic pecking order has altered since the western economic apocalypse, disintegration, collapse or the Change as you in the media call it. Environmentalists have long stated the writing was on the wall, even years ago when we weren’t a collective voice. Then, as I suspect today, we’ll hear more hot air, promises and lies.”

“Drama queen,” hissed the bearded man. A woman sitting at a booth by the thick frosted glass window shouted back to him,

“Why don’t you tell the poor folk in Limerick, Yorkshire, Somerset or Belfast they are drama queens? Tell that to all the poor bastards who aren’t fortunate enough to live behind a flood barrier, you daft old fud!” The old man shouted back,

“Why don’t you fondle my cute furry balls!”

“Right!” shouted the barman, holding up his hand, “Any more of your crap and you’re out the door. Clear? She’s right, you are a daft old fud.” The barman turned to the Professor and said,

“Sorry about that pal. They’re not all like him in here. Take big Janusz over there, he’s a scientist.” Janusz tuned his head on hearing his name mentioned. He said,

“Somehow I don’t think an unemployed domestic science teacher qualifies as a scientist, but thanks anyway.” The barman grimaced and said,

“Throw a dog a bone here. All I’m saying is, ah forget it, I give up.” The Professor went back to watching the television. Dr Ma Xun was answering another question. He stated,

“The world has put its faith in trying to defy nature, like constructing colossal flood defences to hide behind when it would have been better tackling the Siberian and Canadian permafrost through a reduction in carbon emissions. The permafrost melted for the first time in eleven thousand years, billions of tonnes of methane released into the earth’s atmosphere. We reached the tipping point years ago but still all we heard was more flannel and empty promises. The earth’s fate will be sealed if we don’t act. It may even be too late. I’m afraid we have been failed.”

“And what do you make of the Dalai Lama’s intervention?”

“The GM agree with his holiness. The time has come to reinvent our relationship with the planet and try to reverse the damage we had inflicted, if that’s possible. Even as I speak to you today, the impact of man’s activities on the planet in the form of deforestation, urbanisation, over fishing, industrialisation and intensive agriculture has culminated in a series of events leading to a distinct threat to mankind’s own existence. Reflecting the words of the Dalai Lama, throughout history Mother Earth has cultivated an environment for mankind to evolve and flourish, it has nurtured and fed him, but now she has taken enough of his unacceptable behaviour. The Earth Mother is about to flip mankind on his proverbial backside and unleash an almighty spanking upon her ungrateful child”. The old man with the beard shouted out,

“It’s all a conspiracy so they can buy up all the good land and sell it off for a profit.” He was interrupted by his Rastafarian friend who had joined him.

“Shite, it’s the white racist patriarchy trying to destroy Africa and rid themselves of the poor and weak. It’s like Haile Selassie talked about, the coming of Babylon.” The bartender told them both to be quiet. The Rastafarian laughed and clicking his fingers.

“Hey, take a leaf out of this guy’s book why don’t you,” said the bartender pointing to the Professor. “He’s got manners, something you two old losers could only dream about!”

“Who is he anyway? Never seen him in here before!” shouted the Rastafarian.

Professor Burke fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. He gulped down his drink. The programme had returned to the digitalised news presenter. The voice stated,

“Dr Ma Xun from the Green Movement was granted a special visa to enter the United States as he has been labelled a communist, pro-terrorist, anti-democratic and anti-family by the Government. Olga Petrinski was reporting for ABC outside the Freedom Tower in New York. It looks like another hurricane is on its way, so on that note here’s Natasha with our weather this side of the pond, sponsored by ExxonMobil.”

Looking down at Professor Burke, the barman said,

“Drink up man. It looks like it’s the end of the world.”

“End of the world? No, I don’t think so. The end of the human race possibly. One day anyway. The planet will carry on regardless.” The barman smiled and said,

“Ach, it might never happen.”

“It already has happened,” replied the Professor. The barman shrugged his shoulders. He wiped the cold metal surface of the bar with an old cloth on his way to where the two old men were seated. They were continuing their argument about conspiracy theories. The Rastafarian said,

“They control the people through food additives and contamination of the water supply,” said

“Just because you have a beard, doesn’t make you a philosopher.” The bartender berated the drinkers. Professor Burke gave up all hope of finding any mention of his story, or his meeting with the Elves. Surely Lúthien would have approached him by now, he thought. He gulped down the last of the poitín took out a pen and paper from his satchel and began to write. When he had finished, he took a photograph of his family out of his wallet and stared at their faces. He then put his Tilley hat back on and walked out of the bar. Dark churning skies loomed ominously above his head, but the haar had been lifted by the wind. Shuffling along the rain soaked street, he could smell the sea. He was close to the docks. He was considering the prospect of hiring a boat when a man and a woman approached. The woman took him forcibly by the arm and pushed him into the back seat of a parked vehicle.