2698 words
\nDay One
\nIt is the stream that leads Gethin to the cove. At night it burbles in\nhis dreams, foaming at the mouth and demanding he follow it. And so he\nobliges.
\nSeven miles he walks, with the stream as his guide. Seven miles in pitch\ndark, through field and forest, until he arrives at the coast at the\ncusp of dawn. Poised on the clifftop, Gethin peers down on a\nmercury-tinted bay while the stream cascades over the cliff, spewing its\nguts into the sea.
\nA deep breath to summon his courage before he scrambles down the cliff\nface, camera bag strapped to his back and the legs of the tripod digging\ninto his kidneys.
\nNothing could have prepared him for what he sees. Nothing. For here on\nthe pebbled beach stands a stone circle. This is no modern structure,\nbut an ancient gathering place. A ceremonial circle where stars align.\nBut how did it get here?
\nGethin shakes the incredulity of its location from his brain and\nfocusses the camera lens. The sun hovers below the horizon, reluctant to\nrise at such an ungodly hour, while the tide hisses and spits as it\nbreaks on the pebbled beach, a spiteful child retrieving the gifts it\nhad bestowed hours earlier and leaving those it is bored with in its\nwake. A hypnotic rhythm, an anaesthetist's spell.
\nAs the sky blushes magenta and violet, he prepares to shoot.
\nFacing east, Gethin watches as the golden orb, armed with silver\ndaggers, splits the tallest megalith in three yet deals no damage.\nInstead, the stone wears the sun as a crown before passing it to its\nadjacent sibling. Shadows lengthen, turning the stones into slender gods\nwith pebbled offerings at their feet, but all too soon the show is over,\nleaving Gethin somewhat bereft.
\nHe sits in front of the tallest megalith and settles against its\nsun-warmed torso.
\nIt is the whispers that wake him. Words indecipherable, and yet he is\ncertain they carry meaning. Eyelids flicker open, and the whispering\nceases. A dream. Nothing more than a dream, but when he closes his eyes\nthe whispering resumes. Wave forms. A primal ululation, distant and\nnonsensical. His heartbeat is a hummingbird, and as he rises to his feet\nthe lichen that clings to the stone's face tugs at his hair, reluctant\nto let him leave.
\nThe evening is spent in front of the PC, working on the photographs. The\nsoftness of the light, the magic captured during the golden hour. A few\nhe is pleased with, and yet there is more to be done. Tomorrow, in time\nfor sunrise, he will return.
\nAt night he dreams of coral weed, tendrils of pink-splayed fingers\nreaching out to stroke his face, and wakes to find a strand of seaweed\ndraped on his pillow, the salty tang of brine on parched lips.
\nDay Two, 04:00
\nGethin steps out of the shower, leaving in his wake a trail of sand that\nrefuses to rinse away despite the power of the jet. He wipes the steam\nfrom the mirror, and his sightless eye stares back blankly. Eleven years\nold when a stone from a slingshot blinded him, and the eye has not\njudged his actions since.
\nThis morning, the walk to the cove seems to take longer, and he wonders\nif he has taken a wrong turn, but soon the sweet scent of gorse taints\nthe early morning mist, and the grating breath of waves breaking on\npebbles grows louder with each step. He pauses atop the cliff, his gaze\nfixed on the megalithic structure on the beach below. The stones are\ndark, brooding giants, purple faced and misshapen.
\nBlack-eyed gulls strut the clifftop as he descends, whooping with joy\neach time he stumbles. This is their domain, not his. He rests on a\nledge, some fifteen feet from the bottom, surprised to discover the tide\nis far out to sea. Since he neglected to check the tide times he will\nneed to foreshorten the image to ensure both sea and structure are\nincluded in the scene. Legs dangling, he counts the stones. Fourteen in\ntotal, each one ranging in height and girth. Evenly spaced, except for\nthe two closest to the shore. Here the space is wider, like a missing\ntooth in a gaping mouth. The megaliths are statues, pitted and gnarled\nagainst an indigo backdrop, and the sound of the sea as it laps at their\nfeet reminds him of the whispering.
\nWas this once an ancient place of worship and ritual? A place where\nbards and druids gathered to eulogize. Perhaps the whispers are the\nvoices of bardic ghosts. He gathers his breath, and completes the\ndescent.
\nGethin's good eye surveys his surroundings while instinct and experience\nassist. Setting up the tripod and camera is a mechanical act, one he has\nperformed countless times. His mind knows this and weaves its own path,\none strewn with stones and the gap-toothed grin of the boy who stole the\nsight of an eye. A trauma long past, but not forgotten.
\nThis morning the golden hour is a quantum leap, each wave a time-lapsed\nsequence, each colour shift, through violet to red, over in a heartbeat.\nHe sits at the foot of the tallest megalith, digs his heels in firm\namong the pebbles, and leans back, spent. The tide rolls in ever closer,\nuntil it licks at the stones, causing those at the water's edge to\ndecrease in height with each surge. An act of slow drowning. He\nwatches...and waits.
\nDiscomfort ebbs into his subconscious, a prodding pain in his spine, so\nhe turns and rests on his haunches, studying the face of the rock. The\nconical tip of a limpet stands proud, but there's more on offer here.\nThe rock face is a world in miniature, and an ideal subject for some\nmacro work.
\nA carpet of algae makes a suitable starting point. It's not a species\nhis phone app recognizes but an interesting type nonetheless—the\ncolour of aubergine, baked in the sun. No hint of chlorophyll, instead\nit mimics the surface of the rock. Filamentous. Invasive, too. Even the\nlimpets are garbed in it.
\nHe squints towards the sky, grateful to see that the clouds have rolled\nin and reduced the contrast. Switching to a macro lens, and attaching a\npolarising filter, he squats low. F-stop 4, his sighted eye focusses.
\nA few clicks is all he manages before his vision pixelates, each\nfilament of algae becoming a throbbing strobe that waves in his vision\nas though calling to him. Then a frothing garble of murmured vibrations\nthat he hears rather than sees. A shooting pain at the back of the\nretina, and a bout of nausea so acute he retches.
\nThe world turns black.
\nHe wakes to the scream of gulls and the sharp tang of iodine, but the\ntide has encroached no further, so he could not have been unconscious\nfor long. Throbbing pain in his cheekbone; his fingers come away bloody.\nGradually the world stabilizes, and he stands on legs that belong to a\nnewborn deer.
\nThe journey home is fraught with fear, but Doctor Google assures him\nthat what occurred was nothing more than an ocular migraine, with\ntiredness the likely cause. Makes sense, since he's never been a morning\nperson and has been up and out long before sunrise the last two days. He\nburies the incident in the occipital lobe and warns it against\nrecurrence.
\nTo distract himself from negative thoughts he copies the photos from the\nSD card and begins the process of deleting those he deems unworthy and\nfiling those that show potential. The sunrise shots are awesome, some of\nhis best work to date. Gethin takes a deep breath before opening the\nfirst of the macro shots, of which there are only three. It was all he\nmanaged before the faint. He imports the first into Photoshop, and the\nscreen displays a maroon carpet of algae. Nothing more. No waving arms\nor strange sounds. And the knot at the back of his neck loosens its\ngrip.
\nDay Three, 10:40
\nGethin wakes to the distant wail of a siren and the realization that he\nhas overslept. A muzzy head and a sore back punish his tardiness. Even\nthe shower fails to rouse him, so he turns down the dial, delivering a\nblast of cool water to his aching body. It is as he dries his feet that\nhe notices the bloom. At first he mistakes it for sand, but the grainy\nmatter that has adhered to the soles of his feet refuses to shift\ndespite a vigorous rub with the towel. It itches, too. A deep,\npenetrating tingle, made worse by the rubbing. He checks the rest of his\nskin, relieved to find the rash has not spread. Fungi, he assumes,\nsomething he picked up while barefoot. But he would have noticed sooner,\nwouldn't he? He dabs the soles of his feet with calamine, wincing at the\nensuing sting, then heel walks to the kitchen while the lotion dries.
\nAfter yesterday's incident he knows he should rest, but the call of the\ncove is a magnet. By midday he is dressed and heading for the beach.\nToday he will capture the macro shots that yesterday's episode stole\nfrom him.
\nHeavy-legged and sore-footed, he makes it to the cove just as the rain\nstarts. A persistent drizzle; a photographer's nightmare. An invisible\nhorizon, cloud so low it is impossible to tell where sea ends and sky\nbegins. The whole landscape washed grey as far as the eye can see. It is\nnot the light that concerns him but the thought of getting water inside\nthe camera. Still, he's here now, and after such an arduous walk he\nintends to make the most of it. The focus will do him good, help take\nhis mind off things.
\nHe begins with an easy subject—a pile of pebbles at the edge of the\ncliff. Zoomed in, the pebbles resemble a nest of speckled birds' eggs,\none ringed with concentric ovals, another pale and wan. The ugly\nduckling among the brood.
\nThe tide has turned, leaving in its wake rock pools teaming with life.\nSeaweed slick as oil, a rib of kelp, shaped like a tree, its warty\nanchor like an old man's testicles, but it is the funnel-shaped\npeacock's tail that captures his attention. A silvery fan of concentric\ncircles, the ear of Cliodan, goddess of the sea and granter of wishes.\nEyes closed, he makes a wish, the same one he has wished for fifteen\nyears, though it has never been granted.
\nGethin removes his boots and socks, rolls his jeans to his knees, and\nscavenges among the rock pools. A skulking crab-like creature beneath a\nclump of seaweed, stalk-eyed, but instead of pincers it has spiralling\ntusks, like those of a narwhal. He tries to get a shot, but it burrows\nbeneath the sand in the time it takes to blink.
\nWaving at him from another pool is a clump of dead man's fingers, the\ncolour of maggots. Each digit is tipped with a gelatinous black-slanted\npupil that follows his movements. He shudders, and the mass emulates his\nresponse with a quiver of its own. Gethin imagines the corpse to whom\nthey belong buried beneath the rock, a hand reaching out in a last\ndesperate attempt to survive, but logically he knows it's only fungus.\nHe considers himself genned-up when it comes to marine biology, but\nbetween this and the crab-like creature something feels off here,\nthere's something eerily peculiar about the whole thing. He shivers, and\nheads back to the beach.
\nThe salt water has soothed his itching feet; the incessant drizzle has\nceased, so he turns his attention back to the megaliths, visiting each\nstone in turn and noting its features.
\nOne of the stones wears a wig of crusted guano, sun-dried and white as\nsnow. On another, a colony of tiny barnacles have clumped together to\nform a beard. We are all parasites, he thinks. Nothing but a bunch of\nhopeless leeches. A wave of despair accompanies the thought, and the\nwhispering returns to haunt him.
\nIt comes from all around now. From the breath of the wind to the lisp of\nthe sea. The hollowed rock-pools and even the tiny holes of the\nbarnacles. A plethora of voices, some low and guttural, others a\nhigh-pitched whine. Hands pressed to ears, he curls in a ball and rocks\nlike a frightened child.
\nThe journey home seems never ending. His legs are a pair of skittles,\nweighted with sand; his torso a punchbag, filled with dread. Tomorrow he\nwill stay at home, tie himself down if necessary.
\nDay Four, 16:00
\nAll day long day he resists the call of the cove. The grainy rash has\ncrept as far as his knees and his elbows are capped with limpets. The\nabsurdity of his situation strikes as he tries to prise one off with a\nscrewdriver, for what he assumes must be the creature's muscular foot\nproduces a sound like the twang from an elastic band—the sturdy type,\nused as event lanyards. At that precise moment, his blind eye pulsates,\nthe intensity and length of the vibration exactly matching the twang.\nOther than the odd itch or pulse of pain, the eye has ceased to exist\nfor fifteen years, at least in any useful sense. He takes another stab\nat the limpet, this time with the good eye closed, and the same thing\nhappens. It is for all the world as though the creature is trying to\ncommunicate with his useless organ.
\nWorst of all though is the cluster of barnacles, tangled among his chest\nhair. Each the size of an acorn and empty as a beggar's purse. It is the\ntiny void that sickens him most, each shell sucked dry by a predator so\nthat an empty hole stares back at him like a sightless eye, multiplied\nagain and again in the colony. He recalls a strange fact about the acorn\nbarnacle: Proportionally, it has the longest penis in the animal\nkingdom, eight or nine times the length of its owner. A neat solution\nfor a creature glued to the spot and needing to mate. He's grateful the\nshells are empty because the thought of all those penises tangled in his\nchest hair makes him retch. Each attempt he makes to remove the\nbarnacles is thwarted, no matter how deep he digs. The skin on his chest\nred-raw from scrubbing; a bleeding nipple where blade pierced flesh.
\nHe launches the screwdriver across the bathroom floor and slumps on the\nedge of the bathtub, deflated.
\nDay Five, 00:00
\nThe head torch is the only reason Gethin makes it to the beach without\nbreaking every bone in his body. Stiff-limbed and sick to the stomach,\nhis good eye sweeps the cove while the other buzzes and hums to its own\ntune. This is how it has been since the limpet incident, and it has\ngradually worsened over the last few hours.
\nLow tide, and the gap in the stones grins wide in welcome. Fourteen\nmegaliths stand erect, like guards surrounding an invisible palace. His\nsightless eye fixes on the gap, a circular pattern of wave forms\noscillating in his vision, like the ripple of water when a stone strikes\nthe surface. No colour or form, but it's real nonetheless. A small part\nof him, the last scrap of logic, wonders whether he should abandon the\nmission he is about to embark on and visit the eye doctor instead. Could\nit be that after all these years the eye is reawakening? No sooner does\nthe thought enter his head than the whispering starts again. He's\nentered the circle now, and the stones urge him onward, toward the gap.\nThe crescendo rises as he spans the diameter, a chant from the gods, a\ntrisyllabic mantra of encouragement. As he reaches the gap in the\nstones, the moon peeps from behind the clouds to witness the sight,\nturning the sea to a shimmering carpet of silver.
\nGethin's last thought is what a wonderful photograph the scene would\nmake.
\n© 2025 Catherine McCarthy
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