We Float Upon a Painted Sea

2063 Three years earlier

The Protest in the Park festival was making little impression on Bull. It wasn’t as though he didn’t care for the planet’s changing climate, the plight of the famished, the aquifers contaminated by tidal surges or the millions of homes washed away by the most recent floods. Momentarily, he was more preoccupied by the unwanted attentions of a bumble bee. He was aware the bee was an endangered species, and in a curious way he felt privileged by the attention, but after such a prolonged attack the time had come to kill the insect. Ignoring the protests from horrified onlookers, Bull thrashed out at his assailant like an oversized ninja.

When the bee finally made its retreat, he became aware of a woman standing next to him. She was wearing a long black oilskin coat and knee-length boots. Her long dreadlocks were tousled across her perfectly symmetrical face. Finally she said,

“Hi, I’m Saffron. I loved your dancing.” Bull gazed at her intently, startled by her large brown eyes and salient beauty. He said,

“Hi, I’m Bull, virtuoso of the Bolshoi Ballet Company.”

Saffron looked at his immense stature and started to laugh.

“Sure you are.”

Throughout the evening, various environmental campaigners made speeches, in-between live musical performances, and at the end, people queued to sign the Earth Mother Covenant: a pledge to protect the planet at all costs. They proclaimed themselves Covenanters. Bull signed the petition and placed the green bracelet on his wrist. Side by side Bull and Saffron swayed in time to the music, occasionally taking furtive sideways glances at each other. At the end of the concert a spokesperson for the Green Movement entered the stage. She had a message to tell the leaders of the world. She said, “Enough is enough. We, the free peoples of the world, demand systemic change before you completely destroy the planet. Join with me today and tomorrow, we will start a revolution!” The crowd cheered and then gazed at the digitalised fog emerging above their heads, condensing to form harrowing images of the starving and the dying. Scenes of flooding and droughts flashed across the sky. These were followed by snapshots of laughing city financiers smoking cigars and drinking champagne.

On the fringe of the crowd, plastic bottles rained down on a police Snatch Squad as it moved in to arrest a masked man. The wearing of masks had been made a criminal offence by the Government and punishable by an indefinite custodial sentence at one of the new arbitrary detention centres. Bull turned to Saffron and said, “All this talk about famine is making me hungry. Do you want to go and get something to eat?” Saffron looked at him reproachfully and then she noticed his mischievous smile.

They exited the park through a hole in the fence and started towards the gothic tower on Gilmorehill, the structure bathed in the last embers of the sun’s light. They sat on the grass to watch the riot peter out and the crowds disperse and later took a shortcut through the Cloisters. They fooled around amongst the stone colonnades and when they entered the other side it was dark. Saffron led Bull across the Great Western Road, through the Botanic Gardens and over the Ha’penny Bridge to a brew shack called St Mungo’s. Saffron pressed a buzzer, rolled up her shirt sleeve and presented a tattoo for the security camera. The door opened and they made their way to the bar. Saffron ordered a bottle of poitín, slices of warm flat bread and dipping oil. They found a table in a dark corner and sat down. Saffron studied Bull’s eyes and said, “Bull is a moniker right? Not your real name?”

“Everyone calls me Bull, except for my family.”

“What were you called before you got your moniker. When you were young and don’t say Bullock or I will slap you.” Bull grinned. The poitín was taking effect. He felt like a schoolboy jumping off a carousel and enjoying the dizziness in his head. He played with Saffron’s long dreadlocked hair.

“Faerrleah O’Connell is my name, but Faerrleah is a bit of a mouthful.”

“So your moniker is Saffron?

“I don’t have a moniker. I don’t like them. It’s just plain Saffron.”

“Unusual. What’s your surname?”

“Wilton.”

“I was kind of hoping you had a Scottish name like McGregor or McDonald. Something with a bit of clan heritage and blood curdling history to make your toes curl.” Saffron faked a sad face.

“I’m sure I you could still make your toes curl, even if I do have a boring surname. So what brings you to Glasgow?”

“The Clyde flood barrier.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of architecture but…” Bull burst out laughing.

“No, I didn’t come here to look at it. I’m not a tourist, I work there.” Saffron drew her eyes up and down his enormous body and said,

“Do they get you to turn the big wheel that opens and shuts the gates. Are you like a big troll? Oh, you poor thing. So cruel!”

“Something like that.”

They drank and talked until the police arrived and raided the bar. They were looking for members of a particular anarchist group and demanded drinkers make themselves available and present their shackles for inspection. Saffron and Bull made their escape through an emergency exit door and into a side alley.

Except for the columns of search lights beaming down from the undercarriages of hovering police drones, the city was in darkness. Saffron peered up at the dark skies and to one of the Prophylaxis spy satellites being constructed in orbit and reflecting light from the sun on the other side of the planet. She thought about the talk of curfews to deal with the surge in crime since the recent blackouts. The loss of power was being blamed on a string of eco-terrorist attacks at gas fired power stations across the country, but Saffron suspected the Government were purposely orchestrating a circus of fear to justify every action as a reaction. Statements had been issued, through a managed media, designed to assure the public if curfews were introduced it would be a temporary measure. But Saffron knew it was the inception of a new order, the rolling out of an authoritarian state and ultimately the restriction of freedom. From the heavens came a pulse of lightning and a rolling clap of thunder. When the rain started to fall, Bull said,

“I don’t know where I am. I think you better walk me home.” Saffron took Bull by the hand and they made their way towards the Kelvin Walkway. One hour later and soaking wet, they stumbled into Bull’s narrowboat at Maryhill Locks. After drying off, they spent the night smoking hemp, drinking tea and making love. In the morning Bull lay naked with his head resting on Saffron’s breasts. He savoured the moment, breathing in her natural scent. For once he relished having an unnaturally strong sense of smell. He loved the feel of her long hair, strewn along his back, like a warming blanket. His eyes probed her naked body. Her skin was like white marble, reminding him of a statue of Aphrodite: Venus de Milo, but thankfully with arms, he thought. Saffron broke the spell. She turned away and said,

“Let’s go and get some breakfast. Then we can go for a walk on the Necropolis.” Her voice sounded raspy under the weight of Bull’s head, which she peeled from her chest. She disappeared through the toilet door like a rabbit flashing its tail before bolting down a burrow and the vision of Saffron’s naked posterior was engrained into his memory forever.

“What’s the Necropolis?” yelled Bull after her.

“It’s the city of the dead!” shouted Saffron from the bathroom.

They took breakfast at a local café on the Maryhill Road and later walked in a general easterly direction. It was still early in the morning when they entered the Necropolis. The previous night’s rain had made the ragwort and sedges glisten in the warm morning sunshine and the air was filled by the sweet smell of hawthorn bloom. They trailed the pathway snaking upwards towards the summit of the grey rock. Bull noticed most of the large tombs were still preserved many of the smaller gravestones were toppled over and overgrown with Himalayan balsam and knotweed. Obelisks, wingless stone angels and eroded statues lined their ascent. Bull studied some graffiti scrawled across a tomb – you’re a long time dead. He felt an uncomfortable wave of energy wash over his body. He took Saffron’s hand and squeezed it. The chattering song of a magpie pierced the background noise of the city. Saffron saluted the bird and greeting it with a good morning, she pinched Bull’s ribs.

“What was that for?” Bull asked. Saffron giggled like a school girl,

“It’s bad luck to see a magpie on its own. So if you don’t salute it, talk to it and pinch the person you are with, misfortune comes your way.”

“Do you believe that? Or is it an old wives tale?” Bull rubbed his side where he had been nipped. He watched as another magpie hopped from behind a gravestone to join its compatriot.

“It’s a superstition but some people think it brings good fortune.”

“Do you believe in good fortune or do you think you make your own?”

“I think you can set the ground work by creating balance and harmony. It’s astounding what you can achieve when you channel all your positive energy.”

Saffron told him of the Chinese fable about a cowherd boy and a fairy weaver girl who become separated by the stars, but on the seventh day of the seventh month the magpies flock to form a bridge so they could meet and be together.

“That’s a romantic notion. I’ll remember the next time I see one scavenging around my bin looking for scraps,” said Bull.

“It’s not their fault,” laughed Saffron, “Magpies are like urban foxes, pigeons and seagulls - they are all creatures who have learned to evolve. They are nature’s true adapters and live off our waste – we could learn a thing or two from them.”

“Who, me? Take lessons from a pigeon? It’s a mad concept but I’ll give it a go, but not seagulls, I hate seagulls.” Playfully, Saffron pushed Bull, but she was unable to move him.

As they walked, Saffron told Bull the Necropolis was her oasis, stationed within the heart of Glasgow and over hundreds of years the city appeared to have grown around it, leaving it preserved. She told him she would go there early in the morning or before dark, when it was empty, to clear her head and meditate. Bull told her when he felt mirthless he would go to the wild animal sanctuary at the Botanic Gardens and talk to the timber wolves.

“The last time the park keeper asked me to move on. Apparently I was making the wolves feel uneasy.”

They came to the top of the Necropolis. Bull pulled Saffron tighter towards him. Words piled up inside him like vehicles in a road crash. He wanted to express his feelings about last night in gushing terms, but he found it impossible to utter anything coherent or meaningful. Finally, he let her go and looking behind him, he said,

“Who’s that fella up brandishing a brick? He’s got the best view over the city?”

“John Knox. He was a religious reformer. He’s holding a book called, the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of women. I wouldn’t say he’s one of my historical heroes, but I suppose he is to some folk.”

“Not a feminist then?” Saffron took Bull by the hand, leading him to a bench. Bull sat down while Saffron remained standing, staring across the city.

“There’s loads of people buried in this graveyard,” she said, “some great, some not so great. He’s just one of them, but he gets the highest position. One night, a few of us from school came up here and put a traffic cone on his head. We wrote the word misogynist on it. Pathetic I know but we were young and drunk and we wanted to make a statement.” Bull lit a cigarette and watched Saffron as she studied the city. Her hair blowing in the breeze, she reminded him of a figurehead on a Spanish galleon. When she turned her head to face him, he could feel her eyes inspecting him with cold disapproval. She had noticed the packet of cigarettes in his hand.

“You smoke branded products?” she said. Bull’s face was warped with deep consternation. He reined in the emergence of a childhood stutter and said,

“They’re not mine. I’m holding them for a friend who is trying to give up.” Bull lowered his head like a condemned man. Saffron reached inside her bag and offered him a small pouch. Smiling, she said,

“Have you ever tried rolling your own? The tobacco is from a working cooperative in Venezuela.” Saffron gestured to the panoramic urban landscape tumbling into the distance in front of them.

“It’s funny to think the city was full of homes and industry burning coal. The sky would have been black with smoke. They closed all the factories and bulldozed the tenements and called it progress. Now the skies are filled with brown traffic smog. You’re from Manchester so you’ll know what I mean.” Bull was about to correct her mistake and remind her he was from Salford, but he was enjoying listening to her talking so allowed her faux pas.

“Do you ever wonder how we became enslaved by technology?” continued Saffron. “We have been convinced by a compliant media that greed can be justified and industrialists, who care nothing for the planet or the exploitation of its people, are best placed to lead us.”

“I’ve thought about it, but what can one person do on their own?”

Saffron looked at Bull’s Green Covenanters wrist band and said,

“The Necropolis always gets me thinking. Do you know before this hill was a graveyard, it was a rallying point for what they called The Scottish Insurrection? Thousands came here to demonstrate for labour reform and equality. They came to meet up with workers from England and they were going to march on a steel works, but Government agents infiltrated the group and the leaders were tricked and later hanged. They were what society would call radical and they paid for their beliefs with their lives.” Bull contemplated the panoramic view and with a laugh he said,

“You sound a bit like my dad, Saffron. Thank Christ you don’t look like him. So what do you do Saffron? What’s your thing?”

“My thing? You mean like my occupation? I’m an artist.”

“You will need to let me see your work another day.”

“We’ve yet to determine if there will be another day, but perhaps.” Saffron sat down beside him on the bench. She took the papers and tobacco from his hands, expertly rolled a cigarette, lit it and then passed it back to him. Bull coughed hard, his chest rasping with the smoke.

Bull looked to the west and the Clyde Gateway where the last tidal surge engulfed the Barrier.

“Poor bastards,” he said, “All their homes and possessions destroyed in one night. The Change affects all, isn’t that what they say?” He stubbed his cigarette out. Saffron kissed him on his cheek. Saffron said,

“That’s what they say, but some suffer more than others. Like it has always been.”

Like an infatuated schoolboy, Bull contemplated her dark penetrating eyes. Saffron changed the mood by telling him she had to go. They left the Necropolis and walked through the city streets until finally they stopped outside St Enoch underground station. The Glasgow rain was now in full pelt so they put on their ponchos. Bull ranted about every subject that came to mind in an effort to delay the inevitable parting of company, but the moment came and the separation was ended by a kiss. Bull watched her disappear down the subway escalator, but before he turned to leave Saffron reappeared. She extended her hand and passed Bull a piece of folded paper. Bull looked down at the note and when he raised his head she was gone. A strange feeling churned in his stomach.