We Float Upon a Painted Sea

We Float Upon a Painted Sea

Christopher Connor

This is a work of fiction. Names, events, places, character's opinions or beliefs are a product of the author's imagination or are used for fictitious purposes only. Any comparisons to actual events, persons alive or dead is entirely coincidental.

We Float Upon a Painted Sea Copyrigh
t
©
2015 by Christopher Connor

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way or form without the prior permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in printed in newspapers, magazines or periodicals.

Contact the author at:
[email protected]

Cover design by Andrea Connor at
:
[email protected]

A special thank you to Allan Cowie

Chapter 1: McIntyre’s hangover

McIntyre stepped out from his pod, turned his head to the wind and allowed the needles of rain to exfoliate the skin on his bloated face. In the slate grey sky, his eyes settled on a pair of oystercatchers filling the air with their shrill alarm calls and violating the ephemeral tranquillity of dawn. An early warning system for those, like himself, now accustomed to the approaching disturbance. He felt a change of pressure in his lungs, a sudden quickening of the heart and a tingling sensation which ran the length of his body. As anticipated the earth groaned beneath his feet, the sudden burst of energy shaking the flimsy shell of his temporary home in its footings. And then the tremor passed, leaving him alone in silence.

He cast his gaze out over the ocean and towards the mangled wreckage of the rigs. There, in the distance, the wave rose up like a dark wall on the horizon, small at first, but growing in stature and velocity as it propagated towards the shallower waters surrounding the islands of St Kilda. The gust of wind preceding the wave took McIntyre by surprise, flipping his large frame like an autumn leaf and nearly knocking him off his feet. Stunned by its ferocity, he watched in wonder as the body of water broke against the shoreline with a terrible roar, the crest of the wave rolling and turning over until it collapsed in on itself. A foaming white discharge of detritus pounded the cliff face with an almighty force, sending a pulse of sea spray two hundred feet into the air. Down in the bay, the boats bounced in the floating harbour, as if excited by the commotion on the other side of the island.

Still, not as dramatic as last nights tremor, he thought. His memories were still hazy, but he recalled being at the ceilidh in the village hall. The dance floor had descended into a maelstrom of colliding bodies and ceaseless anarchy, and this was before the tremor had struck. All accepted routines had been abandoned as drunkards indulged in the reckless practice of throwing their partners into other dancers and over tables – one unlucky soul even smashed into a wooden pillar and lost a tooth. He didn't see it himself, but one of the islanders had told him that Padruig McKinnon had been hurled out of the hall doors with such momentum that he had carried on down the brae, arms and legs flaying, and never to be seen again. At the end of the night, on his walk up the gravel path back to his pod, McIntyre had heard a loud snoring noise coming from inside a stone bothy, the previous inhabitants of the island called a cleit, and when he shone his torch inside, Padruig McKinnon lay amongst a flock of dishevelled sheep sheltering from the rain.

On occasions such as this, when his hangover reached seismic proportions, McIntyre would visit a herbalist called Sheila who acted as a local shaman. Sheila believed that nature provided nearly every remedy for mankind's ills, despite what the pharmaceutical corporations would have you believe. She was also a good source of locally grown hemp, particularly when McIntyre needed a more effective but unprocessed painkiller. Arriving at the gate to her cottage, he was greeted by four women, each carrying a placard.  One message was for a crackdown on Poitín. Mournfully, McIntyre looked at the sign and shook his head in agreement. Being a Coast Guard officer, he thought, I really should stop turning a blind eye to the illegal imports of alcohol reaching the island from Barra. He recognised the woman holding the sign as the wife of Padruig McKinnon who obviously didn't come home last night, preferring the comfort of a cleit and the company of sheep to the marital bed.

He recognised the other three protestors as part of his superior officer's family: the Commandant's daughter, wife and mother-in-law. They usually accompanied him from the mainland to conduct their firebrand missionary work. It normally turned out to be a futile gesture and looking along the deserted village street, today was no exception. The daughter appeared the least enthusiastic. Her crudely written sign denounced Sheila as being a witch. McIntyre tended to agree with his accusation to a point, but questioned if the girl was only present out of family loyalty or even coercion. He studied the oldest women's haggard face. Her placard prophesied the end of the world. Given recent global disasters, a statement not requiring the greatest level of foresight, he thought, although he assumed that  mankind's destiny would not be concluded soon enough for this old harpy. Another placard, being jerked excitedly in the air by the Commandant's wife, called for the islanders to kneel and repent for their sins. After what he had witnessed at last nights ceilidh in the village hall, he imagined that most of the islanders would already be on the road to atonement.

Realising Sheila wasn’t at home - her staff and muck boots weren’t lying at the step - McIntyre said his farewells to the protesters and headed to the beach where she was often found collecting kelp, or whatever the ocean had thrown up on the shore. When he arrived, she wasn't there. He paused to look at the new deposits of debris delivered by the eddy currents from the last wave. There were numerous pieces of wreckage which warranted investigation, but his personal needs were currently greater at that moment in time. He headed to
the Glen,
the first of the artificial biomes created on the island, and to him, still the most stunning. He followed the burn up hill until he could see a mop of grey hair in the distance. When he arrived, he found her picking hemp leaves amongst a plantation of alder trees.

They sat on a log under Sheila’s tarpaulin and shared a hemp cigarette while waiting for her Kelly Kettle to boil. They talked about the tremors and the waves and last night's ceilidh. They arrived at the subject of McIntyre's hangover and the Commandant's visit. Sheila enlightened him that oral odours from overindulgence of alcohol originated in the gut. She produced a bunch of wild parsley and a rhizome of ginger from her rucksack. She said it would be good for his digestive system and also help with his flatulence. McIntyre told her he didn’t suffer from excessive flatulence. Sheila insisted with a reassuring nod of the head and flap of the hand. McIntyre sniffed the ginger root and said,

“Will it bring me out in a rash again?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Sheila.

“That body scrub you made from thistles? The one you said would disguise the smell of alcohol on my skin. I broke out in spots.”

“Did you get sick?” Sheila stopped herself and then said, “Stupid question, I've never known you to get sick. I only see you when you're looking for a hangover cure. Worryingly, that's quite a lot.”

“Naw, I wasn't sick but the Commandant still knew I had been at the Poitín.” Sheila convinced him he would be fine with her new remedy. She made him a breakfast of freshly caught crab, wild fennel, homemade soda bread and mushrooms. Cooking them on an open fire, she said it would help the passing of the herb and ginger concoction. Later, when the rain had stopped, McIntyre walked Sheila back to her cottage. The protesters had gone. He said his farewells and headed down the road to the harbour, stopping only once to reassemble a stack of rotting lobster pots which had fallen over during the last tremor.

He stopped to catch the news headlines from an information bulletin at the ferry terminal. The newsreader delivered her monologue concerning the continuing state of emergency and the urban riots on the mainland. McIntyre tried not to be distracted by her long legs and breasts, spilling out of her low cut blouse. The curfew was discussed, but nothing of last nights wave. In an unemotional voice she stated that the world's leaders had finally given up trying to reach an agreement, allowing them to sign the 2036
Manhattan Declaration
on climate change. McIntyre shrugged his shoulders and continued to the Harbour Master's office. He drew in a last lungful of salty air, turned the wheel lock and went in. Today, there was something new. He could smell the Commandant's cheap, mousey aftershave. There he was, thought McIntyre, sitting at my desk, propped up by several cushions and wearing his cap indoors to give the illusion of height. The Commandant stood up. He had an expression like he had been sucking lemons for breakfast. He approached McIntyre, his arms out-stretched ready to embrace him.

“Maranatha,” said the Commandant. McIntyre stepped back and drew him a quizzical look.

“It’s the Church’s new salutation,” said the Commandant.

“Well Saul, I’m not in your church.”

“Oh, I forgot you’re an unbeliever. Most of you islanders are.”

“Yet, I
am
a devout believer in personal space.”

“I find it hard to believe you are devout about anything apart from the demon drink.”

“The island Council still refusing your request to open the chapel?”

The Commandant ignored the question, his eyes now settling on an antique pewter quaich on the McIntyre's desk. He examined the Celtic engravings and Latin inscription. He grunted his disapproval. McIntyre, watching him out the corner of his eye, pressed a pad mounted on the wall and waited while a montage of 3D digital maps and images appeared, suspended in the air, in front of him. He said,

“How was your holiday? Did you unwind a wee bit? Did you swim with the sharks and the dolphins, or just paddle with the crabs and dog whelks? I used to enjoy a paddle in a rock pool when I was a boy - one of my first memories actually.”

“It wasn’t that type of holiday Mac, but the wife seemed to enjoy it. Any spiritual benefits I received have been overturned by this frickin news.” The Commandant’s expression changed. He withdrew a coin from his jacket pocket and after examining it, he dropped it in a glass jar sitting on the desk, labelled
blasphemy box
. McIntyre smirked at the incongruous words crudely scribbled across the jar, and then he was distracted by the sound of a lobster boat’s four stroke engine.

McIntyre gazed out the window and when the vessel came into view he recognised the pilot from last night’s ceilidh. One of the MacNeil twins, he thought. He couldn’t be certain which one, but he had heard that Donald MacNeil had gone blind after drinking a toxic batch of Poitín and was at a Glasgow clinic having a new set of retinal implants. McIntyre stepped back outside and ran the length of the jetty until he caught up with the boat. The fisherman greeted him with a broad smile, showing his impressive set of veneers. Putting the engine into neutral he said in a voice as rough as gravel,

“Madainn mhath.”.

“Aye, and yourself, Lachlan,” said McIntyre raising a half-hearted hand in response. He was in little mood for making cordial conversation or preventing reckless fisherman taking their boats out in treacherous conditions.

“It’s Donald,” replied the fisherman.

“I’m sorry Donald, I thought you were Lachlan.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a common mistake. I get confused which one I am myself sometimes.” Donald MacNeil kept smiling.

“How's the new eyes?”

“They’re fine, Mac, just fine. I just got back from Glasgow late last night, so I’m still getting used to them. It was good Poitín though.”

“How are things back on the mainland?”

“It’s a scary place Mac, curfews by night and rioting by day. It’s going to pieces. I was glad to come home.”

“Aye, I heard things are getting out of hand.” Both men nodded as if acknowledging each others concerns. Finally, Donald MacNeil said,

“Hey, did ye see that Mac? Did ye see that tremor?” McIntyre found it amusing that the Islanders would always refer to the experience of the tremors in visual terms.

“Aye, I did.”

“And last night’s tremor, that was the worst yet. Different from the usual shale rig tremors. And the wave that came after it? It came from way out in the Atlantic, Anton Dohrn or the Rockall Trough. English Pete told me you moved into a pod up on Mullach Sgar, after the wife threw you out? You must have seen the wave?” McIntyre ignored the reference to his wife: he didn't want to provide the island gossips with more information than they needed, or deserved.

“I must admit, I slept through that one,” said McIntyre.